


Atomos

by SierraNovembr



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Atonement (2007 film), M/M, NO rape, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pilot Tony Stark, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Winteriron Big Bang 2017, the sexual assault in the film does not occur in this au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-23 10:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12505164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SierraNovembr/pseuds/SierraNovembr
Summary: In 1938, Stevie is 13 years old, a fledgling artist, and possessed of a keen sense of righteousness. His family lives a life of wealth and privilege, but he knows that even powerful people can be bullied. A long-anticipated family visit doesn’t go anything like he’d hoped, and his own rash actions threaten to destroy those he loves.Bucky Barnes, the educated son of the family’s cook, and Stevie’s older brother, Tony, are trying to weather a secret, forbidden relationship.  Despite the strain of Tony’s scheming father and quick tempers flaring in the sweltering heat, they find solace and deeper commitment to one another just before everything shatters.Years later, Steve seeks forgiveness for his role in the events that destroyed their lives, but the world is at war, and the fate of a single soldier is a terribly uncertain thing.





	1. Chapter 1: 1938, The Stark Estate, Upstate New York

**Author's Note:**

> This is a submission for the Winteriron Bang (2017). I had a fantastic time working with my artist, [explodingcrenelation](http://explodingcrenelation.tumblr.com/)/[menhir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/menhir). 
> 
> I found Atonement (the 2007 film) on Netflix a few months ago and I decide that my heart hadn't been broken enough lately, so I rewatched it. I was struck by how much young Briony looks like a pre-serum Steve, and then this fic idea lodged itself in my mind. Bucky as the romantic, heartbroken soldier. Tony as his gorgeous, brown-eyed, reckless lover. It was too perfect. So, this is an Atonement AU, however the fic DOES NOT include any rape. It does include getting dirty in the garage, sweaty summer sexytimes, Bucky in a WWII uniform, pilot!Tony, skinny!Steve, and BUCKETS of angst. I truly hope you enjoy!
> 
> The title is Greek for "undivided" and is the basis for the word "atom" - but, as we eventually learned, the atom isn't indivisible at all...

Steve rolls the brush between his thumb and fingers, staring down his painting as if it could be glared into submission. He steps back to get a better angle and accidentally kicks a few of his toy soldiers from their ranks. The poor fellas had been lined up for inspection on the floor days earlier, before the storm that was Princess Arabella consumed him. He glances over at her portrait, carefully set aside in a corner of his room to dry. She had taken him two full days to finish, and Steve had skipped more than one meal in pursuit of her. She glances off to the side of her canvas, anticipation on her face that promised adventure, skirts billowing behind her in a spirited wind. Steve allows himself the barest of smiles before bending to retrieve his fallen soldiers. He relocates the platoon to the base of the fireplace, a camp they can only hold in the summer when the hearth is dormant. He gets the soldiers back in ranks, ready for inspection once more, when he realizes – “Necktie!” he shouts, springing back to his easel and his current work. It’s a portrait of a young doctor, poor, with scuffed shoes and a gentle look in his eyes. He’s the Princess’, and if Steve can finish him, he will hang at her side in the gallery showing he’s putting on in the East Wing tonight.

Anticipation fizzes up Steve’s spine. His father’s coming home, and Bruce as well. His brothers will get to see his art tonight! No one’s been by in ages apart from his tutors. Summer is a terrible time for house calls, most of the families they usually entertain are off on their vacations. His family was supposed to visit Italy, but an accelerated deadline on one of the production lines pulled Howard back to his factories and then Steve got a bit of pneumonia and so the trip was delayed. 

Anyway, the point of art is to be seen, for it to move someone, and therefore someone must be there to be moved. Steve squints at his painting again. He snatches up a tube of black and places a small dab on his palette. He teases it into the green, blending a more somber shade for his good doctor’s serious sensibilities. Soon, a familiar frenetic energy comes over him and he is lost to the brush strokes.

When Steve’s finished, he can feel the sweat beading on his forehead in the heat. He swipes a thin, paint-covered hand over his face, wondering just how long he was immersed. Surely it can’t be too late for breakfast? 

Steve hurries out of his room and down the hall. Mrs. Jarvis is in the room across the landing, putting clean linens on the bed for Bruce. Steve swiftly ducks down the next hallway; if Mrs. Jarvis finds out he hasn’t been downstairs yet she’ll tell Mr. Jarvis, and Steve will be in for another lecture. He’s starting to gasp a little, his asthma catching up to him as he half-tumbles down the servants’ stairs. He passes through the scullery and into the huge old kitchen, collapsing at one end of the table. Rebecca, the kitchen maid, catches sight of him and passes him a warm roll from the basket on the counter. 

“I saw that.” Mrs. Barnes, the head cook, hasn’t looked up from where she is polishing silver at the other end of the table. “Back to the potatoes, Rebecca.”

Rebecca winks at Steve. Her hair is starting to come out of its braid, blonde wisps plastered to her forehead in the heat of the kitchen. Mrs. Barnes sets down a gleaming spoon and grabs the next one, miming throwing it at her distracted maid. She turns her attention to where Steve has put his head down on his arms, trying to regain control of his lungs. “And, you, Stevie, know better than to run on an empty stomach.”

Between the smell of the polish and the exertion, Steve can’t draw a full breath to answer her, which Mrs. Barnes rightly takes as proof of her point. Since there are dark spots dancing in his vision, Steve doesn’t feel inclined to argue with her. He keeps his head down until he can manage a few bites of the soft roll without his stomach threatening to return it to him. By then, Mrs. Barnes has plated some cold chicken and other roll, which Steve falls on like a starving thing. He feels much better when he’s finished, and he must look it, since Mrs. Barnes takes the opportunity to smack his paint-covered knuckles with another spoon. Steve hisses at the pain. 

“You’re to stay out from under our feet today, Stevie. We’ve got a dinner for your whole family to prepare,” she tells him.

Discreetly shaking his hand out under the table, Steve mutters, “Yes, Mrs. Barnes.” He hurries out of the back door before she can scold him further. Steve slips along the outer wall, but he’s only gone a couple of steps when he sees Bucky Barnes making his way over from across the yard. Steve stills, watching his friend approach. He’s wearing a blue shirt, worn and soft, and tugging heavy leather gloves off his hands. There’s oil smeared on his arms and cheek. He must’ve been in the shop, then. Steve knew that he was helping Tony with the new car, the one Tony couldn’t leave well enough alone. “She’s a fine thing, Stevie,” he’d said, “but I can make her _fly_.”

“Hey pal,” Bucky greets Steve as he draws up to the kitchen door. “I hear you’re putting on a gallery show.”

“Who told you?” Steve asks.

Bucky doesn’t answer, just sighs a little before turning to ask his ma for a pitcher of lemonade. Mrs. Barnes hands it out to him and Bucky tucks cups into his pockets while juggling the nearly over-flowing lemonade. He starts back towards the garage.

Steve follows him, asking, “Will you come and see it?”

Bucky looks uncomfortable, “I’m not sure that would be quite…”

“Bruce is going to be there! And Father!” Steve interjects quickly.

Bucky mutters something Steve doesn’t catch, then turns quickly to face Steve, lemonade sloshing over his hands. “Aw, damn.” Bucky raises his voice, “TONY! Get out here and take a break before I send in the big guns!” 

They can hear Tony bellowing from inside, “Nice try, Buckaroni, but I know there’s no way Bruce is here this early! It’s only….what time is it?”

Bucky nods at Steve, so he shouts back, “It’s past ten, Dunderhead!”

His older brother’s head pokes out of the large open garage door. “Stevie!” Tony says. His tone is happy, but he shoots Bucky a mean glare. Tony’s hair is fluffed out over his head the way it gets when he doesn’t bother with pomade and his face and arms are smeared with oil, just like Bucky’s. Tony jogs out to where Steve and Bucky have stopped in the driveway, reaching out to take the lemonade from Bucky’s hands. “I wasn’t expecting you, kiddo.”

The two men kind of _pause_ when Tony’s hands touch the pitcher. Steve frowns up at them, trying to decipher their expressions. Tony looks intense, like he does when he’s trying to solve something. Bucky looks unhappy, shaking his head with a quick twitch and releasing the pitcher. He fishes the cups out of his pocket and passes them to Steve. “I should go wash up, that stuff’s all sticky.”

“Bucky,” Tony says, and for all that it’s just his name, Tony puts a healthy dose of both teasing and reprimand into it.

“Take a load off.” Bucky orders, and then he’s heading back to the kitchen once more. 

Tony watches him go for a moment, then sighs and glances down at Steve. “C’mon, this isn’t gonna get any cooler.” They walk around to the west lawn and settle on the soft grass.

Steve watches Tony knock back his lemonade like it’s a lot stronger than Steve’s and toss the cup aside. “Tones?”

“Yes?”

“What do you think it would feel like to be someone else?”

“Cooler, I should hope.” Tony flops back onto his back, squinting against the bright sunlight. 

“I want to be a soldier. Maybe someone will invent a shot, or a machine, that will fix everything wrong with me,” Steve whispers. He’s already had so many shots, since he was just a baby, shots and treatments and a big, loud breathing machine once. It would be nice if one of them could just _fix it_.

Tony frowns, but doesn’t look at Steve. “Maybe you’ll just have to paint us a whole new reality, Captain.” He smiles a little and throws off a lazy salute, still sprawled on his back.

“Speaking of, I’m worried about the exhibition.”

“I’m sure they are masterpieces,” Tony mumbles.

Steve stretches out beside his brother. A few minutes later he’s warm and sleepy and without thinking he asks, “What’s going on with you and Bucky? Don’t you like each other anymore?”

Tony sits up so fast it makes Steve dizzy. His voice is odd when he answers, “We do. We just move in different circles, that’s all.” He’s off the ground and heading back to the garage before Steve can process that statement.

Bucky never comes back for his drink. When Steve retreats back to the house, he sees him sitting in the shade by the kitchen door, gazing in the direction of the garage. Steve doesn’t want to make him mad too, so he just hurries past without speaking.

*******************

Steve decides he’s going to do a landscape to complement the portraits. He drags his easel out to the upstairs parlor and sets up his paints on the wide window bench overlooking the sprawling lawn. In the foreground is a terrace with an immense fountain, breaking up the otherwise uniform sea of green. The fountain is very deep; it takes Steve a few tries to shade the water dark enough to convey its depth without blacking it beyond recognition.

Steve loses himself in the sketch, and the next time he checks the scene, he sees Tony and Bucky. They seem to be arguing in front of the fountain. Steve puts his pencil down and goes up to the window for a better look. Steve can’t see Bucky’s face, his back is to the window, but he has a clear view of Tony, looking mutinous. Bucky brings a hand up, gesturing for Tony to stop or wait. Tony’s face splits into a grin, but it’s his sharpest, cutting one. He kicks off his shoes, slips his suspenders off and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Bucky twitches forward as if to stop him, but reigns himself in, his gaze steady on Tony. Tony whips his shirt off with a quick jerk and then his fingers are working on his trousers. They slide off easily and then Tony is standing in his tight briefs, which Steve still isn’t used to, but Tony insists is definitely the height of undergarment fashion.

Bucky’s still frozen, and Steve hopes Tony isn’t about to be punched. Stripping off on a hot day when there aren’t ladies around to offend isn’t exactly a breach of propriety, but the look in Tony’s eyes is so _challenging_ , that he really doesn’t know what is happening out there. Then Tony runs his hands down his stomach, over his hips and along the tops of his thighs. It’s provocative and shocking and Steve looks away quickly. He leans back against the wall beside the window and tries to catch his breath. The curiosity burns him though; he’s helpless against his need to see what’s happening. He scoots back in front of the window.

[](https://78.media.tumblr.com/df0efbdf3d6e3930d229453c85381d25/tumblr_oy8k2o5xMY1tfkbiwo2_r1_1280.jpg)  
Art by [explodingcrenelation](http://explodingcrenelation.tumblr.com/)

Bucky is still standing a few paces from the fountain and staring away from the house, back rigid. Tony’s gone. Steve panics for a split second before Tony splashes up out of the water, hauling himself up to stand on the lip. He’s soaking wet, water streams from his dark hair and down his broad chest, pooling around his feet. He smiles, and Bucky must have said something, because it’s a much more genuine smile. He skips nimbly down from the ledge and haphazardly throws on his clothes. Everything is wet and clinging to him and he has to shimmy his hips to get the trousers back up. At that, Bucky looks away, staring up at the sky in the opposite direction. Tony stalks past the other man, pausing with his face close to Bucky’s ear for a moment before continuing back in the direction of the garage. Bucky hurries to the fountain himself, scooping up some water and splashing it down the back of his neck. He grips the skin there for a moment before he’s striding off, nearly breaking into a run to follow Tony.

Steve steps back from the window, scowling. What just happened?

*******************

Tony strolls into the garage at some ungodly early hour. The sun is just barely beginning to peak over the vast lawns of the Stark estate, and everything smells like dew. He grips his coffee mug tighter, courtesy of the lovely kitchen maids who were up even earlier than he was, and briefly considers going back to bed. His empty bed. Tony shudders. No, even waking up for the sunrise is better than going back to that bed. Plus, Tony had seen the look in Bucky’s eyes when they had first inspected the newly-delivered Roadster yesterday. He’ll be down from his mother’s lodge soon, probably within the next hour. Tony’s face stretches into a wide grin and he quickly drowns it in the last of his coffee.

The garage is welcoming, the smell of metal and oil settles in his chest like home. He pulls a large cushioned pad over to his new baby and drops to his knees on it, getting the best view of her V8 engine. He hasn’t gotten any further than his visual inspection when the door creaks open behind him. Tony feels the rush of anticipation that always accompanies Bucky’s presence. Tony sometimes wonders if it will fade, if he will ever get used to the way that the gravity in the room shifts to wherever Bucky is, but it hasn’t happened in the three years they have been lovers, so maybe it never will.

Bucky smiles at Tony’s enthusiastic “Good morning!” and comes to kneel on the other side of the car, already spouting questions about the engine’s technical specifications. Tony is fizzing, high on Bucky’s nearness and the car. They talk and tinker for a few hours when Bucky declares his need for a smoke. Tony stands up, cracking his spine in a satisfying way, and locks the door on his way to sit next to Bucky, who has just lit the roll-up. He sits down comfortably in Bucky’s space and steals the cigarette from him. He brings it to his lips while his free hand trails up and down Bucky’s arm beside him. Bucky twitches like Tony’s tickling him, but his lover has never been ticklish. _Tony_ is extremely ticklish and Bucky is usually fiendish with that knowledge. In fact, Tony is already tensing in anticipation of reprisal when Bucky abruptly stands up. Tony squints up at him, and Bucky shifts, refusing to meet his eyes.

“You keep that one, I can get more.”

Tony slowly gets to his feet. Bucky is tensed like a wild horse about to bolt. “We’ve never had trouble sharing before, darling.” He slowly pulls the cigarette from his lips and runs his tongue over where it had just rested. 

Bucky’s gaze drops to the floor. He mumbles, “Maybe we should do less of it. It’s not like we have much future together, really, maybe it’s time…”

“What?” Tony feels like he’s been punched. He can feel a panic begin to nibble at the edge of his mind, because that sounds like the kind of talk Tony thought they’d left behind years ago. How can Bucky even shape those words after having made Tony the most beautiful promises he’d ever heard? Promises whispered in the dark of their shared room at MIT, Bucky pressed into him, close as they could get – they should have burned those words out of all their futures. Tony holds himself together, his hope sustained because Bucky sounds like he’s reading lines, and poorly at that. Tony’s heard more conviction in his voice when they were arguing about the wisdom of the new colors Maria had done the library in last Fall.

“We move in different circles, after all.”

Tony laughs hollowly. He can’t help it. He doesn’t know what Bucky’s playing at, but that is the last thing that Tony has ever cared about and his lover knows it well.

“It’s getting rather warm,” Bucky croaks, his voice low and breaking before he clears his throat, “don’t you think? I’m gonna get us something to drink from the kitchen. Ma will have something cool.”

Oh, this is just ridiculous. Tony opens his mouth to tell Bucky so, but he’s already ducking out of the door. Frustrated, Tony crushes the cigarette under his boot, suddenly uninterested in finishing it.

*******************

Good _God_ it’s hot. Tony can feel himself already sweating out the lemonade he’d had with Stevie just a few minutes ago. He tries to remember what he’d been up to when Bucky had declared his need for a break, fumbled through the least convincing break up in recorded history, and then disappeared at the first opportunity. He pulls a screwdriver out of his pocket and flips the little tool end over end as he paces. He’s twitchy and irritable and he knows the heat isn’t really to blame. It’s always frustrated Tony that Bucky can barely look at him here at the estate. Bucky puts on a martyr complex like it’s a custom suit. It’s so stupid! But this morning... He can’t possibly mean it.

Tony’s distracted steps lead him directly into one of the work benches and a precariously balanced tool tray goes clattering to the ground. Tony yelps, startled at the loud crash, but manages not to take a wrench to the knee. He sighs in relief; he know from prior experience that doesn’t exactly tickle. He bends to pick up the scattered tools.

He yelps again when the door slams open a moment later. Bucky comes barreling into the room, eyes wide as he tries to figure out what happened. “I’m fine, Buck,” he answers the unspoken question automatically.

Bucky freezes, eyes darting from the mess to the door he just ran through. Tony decides that he’s played along long enough. He straightens, unhurried, and strolls over to where the love of his life is clearly struggling against what they both want. Tony _knows_ the secrecy kills Bucky, a little, every day. He tries to breathe life back into him every night. He’d thought he was doing well enough at it. Tony slips around where Bucky stands, awkward and still in the center of the garage. As Tony draws up to him, he can tell Bucky is trembling ever so slightly. Tony darts the smallest of pecks against Bucky’s cheek and ducks around him to firmly close and bolt the door.

“Not here, Tony, please,” Bucky mumbles. “We can’t…”

Tony’s had quite enough of that. “The garage locks, sugar!”

“No,” Bucky says, “I won’t put us, put you in danger like that.” 

“Nothing’s gonna happen to us here, and you know it. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” 

Bucky looks down at the ground and lets out a sigh. His jaw is set in a stubborn line, and Tony thinks he’s going to have to fight a little dirty, he just hasn’t figured out how to bridge this sudden gap. He just wants to feel Bucky’s hands on him again, have Bucky kiss him the way he’s grown dangerously addicted to. He’s not sure what part of _locked door_ Bucky is having trouble with, because it was fine earlier in the week and nothing’s changed, their guests aren’t even here yet. He could almost see being reluctant if Howard was already home…

Howard. Tony feels his jaw tighten when the pieces come together, pain squeezing his heart. “Howard telephoned last night.” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, shock robbing it of all its power. Bucky still flinches like he’s been struck. Tony continues, “He says you’re planning to be a doctor.” Bucky hadn’t ever mentioned wanting that. Tony thought that he was happy where they were. True, he got a little bored sometimes, even with his part time job at the mechanic’s. He had completed his degree, it was only his ties to Tony keeping him in Boston while Tony finished his doctorate. Did he really want to leave?

“I’m thinking about it, yes.” Bucky finally manages to bring his eyes up from the ground, fixing them on Tony’s face.

Tony feels like he’s underwater, everything is moving slowly, muted. “That’s a lot more school. Expensive, if you want to do it properly. Where would you go for it?”

Bucky licks his lips and has to swallow twice before he chokes out, “San Francisco. He set it up. I would leave next month.” 

Next month. Tony’s tied down in Boston for at least two semesters, more if he wants to sleep occasionally. This is Howard splitting them up. Medical school in exchange for staying away. Not that he knew the extent of Bucky’s role in Tony’s life; Tony knows his father would be far less kind towards Bucky were that the case, but a close friendship with the son of the help was unbecoming enough for Howard Stark to act against it. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to pressure Bucky away, but it seems to be the most successful. “I’m curious, Bucky. Did my father so graciously extend this offer before or after he bullied you into agreeing to leave me alone? I’m just wondering about his methods,” Tony asks. His anger is heavy in his chest, like a lump of slag.

Bucky’s face crumples, tears springing to his eyes. “After,” he croaks, voice breaking.

Such a little word, but it’s the last blow Tony can take. He has to get out of here. The garage, normally his haven, is suddenly stifling. His panic is back and mixing with the rush of anger, the volatile combination threatening to explode within him. If he doesn’t get a breath he’s going to combust. He falls back, fumbling at the door and nearly going face-down on the drive when he manages to get the thing open. He gets his feet under him, and his momentum and blind need to _leave_ get him past it and out onto the lawn. He can’t think, can’t breathe, and Bucky is right on his heels, franticly calling, “Tony! Tony, stop, wait, please! Let me just…we should talk about…where’re ya goin? Tony!”

Tony whirls to face him, coming back to awareness next to the fountain on the main terrace. “ _We move in different circles_ ,” he hisses.

“Hey, c’mon. Let’s cool off for a second, huh?” Bucky pleads, eyes roaming their surroundings. Tony hopes they’re alone, because his own eyes are glued to Bucky, and if he has to look away he might die.

“Cool off?” Tony repeats, voice sounding strangely far away and flat to him. “Yes, James, let’s do that.”

Bucky stills at the use of his given name, mouth dropping open on a nearly-silent gasp. He brings his hand up, a half-hearted warning that Tony thoroughly ignores. His hands move on their own, steadily stripping off his clothing. He leaves his underwear, that’s always been for Bucky to do. Tony touches himself, lightly skimming his hands down his front. His heart is pounding from the tension.

Bucky’s gaze hasn’t strayed an inch from Tony. He’s transfixed; frozen like a statue, but not one of marble. His stillness seems somehow fragile, like a porcelain figure, easily broken. His mouth barely parts to whisper, “Tony.” The name drops from his lips like a stone, shattering the moment.

Tony whirls around and throws himself into the fountain. The water is colder than he expected, and he gasps. It doesn’t stop him from submerging himself, letting the fluid block out the outside world, the heat, the fighting. He idly watches the water plants sway around him until his lungs start to protest.

When he pulls himself out, Bucky is still watching him. His face, though, has changed. The guilt has been overwhelmed with _longing_ and Tony shivers. He feels the anger and fear recede, not fully beaten, but banked. He smiles at Bucky and puts on a subtly teasing show getting his clothes back on over his drenched skin. Somewhat put back together, Tony sets off for the garage once more. He pauses by Bucky to whisper, “Come and take me, love. I’m only ever going to be yours.”

*******************

Bucky tries to answer him, but it feels as if his lungs are frozen in his chest. He can only turn and watch, helpless, as Tony stalks back across the lawn once more. The wet trousers cling to his ass perfectly, each step a tantalizing picture. Heat roars through Bucky, and he stumbles over to the fountain. Cupping the cool water, he splashes it on his face and neck in a desperate bid to cool off. It doesn’t help and Bucky knows he’s going to give in. The only relief he will find is in Tony, damn the consequences. 

Fear and desire pound through him in equal measures. Bucky knows what they are doing, what they are to each other, is dangerous, so dangerous. But maybe…maybe Tony’s right. Maybe they can continue to be careful enough, quiet enough. Lord knows they have years of practice.

He hurries after Tony, slipping into the garage and firmly locking the door behind him. Tony has turned back to look at him, his eyes still defiant, but here in the relative darkness of the garage he seems more vulnerable than just moments ago, bare feet pale against the concrete floor. Bucky takes a few steps towards him. “You’re not wearing shoes,” Bucky whispers.

Tony smiles ruefully. “There wasn’t really a good way to pause my big dramatic exit to fight shoes on to my wet feet.”

Bucky’s fingers twitch with the need to touch Tony, but he hasn’t closed the distance yet, there’s still two steps of empty air between them, crackling with tension. Bucky eventually holds out his arms, and Tony grabs both of his hands to pull him across that space, right into Tony’s body. His clothes are still wet and cool against Bucky’s chest, and Bucky has never felt so wonderful and so wretched simultaneously.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you because of me. I couldn’t bear it,” Bucky whispers. He feels the tears gathering in his eyes and buries his face in Tony’s neck. Tony’s arms tighten around him, and Bucky breaks, silent sobs shaking his body, rocking Tony as well. Tony rubs his back and scratches his nails gently through Bucky’s hair. He almost lost this, Bucky thinks through the tears. He almost _threw this away._ “Help me,” Bucky chokes out, “We – we have to come up with a plan, sweetheart, some way to divert his attention. I don’t want to take Howard’s money, not when your happiness is in the bargain, but I could be a good doctor. You deserve to come home to someone better than a grease monkey.”

Tony sighs and clenches his fist in Bucky’s hair. “You know there is no one I hold in higher regard than you, whatever your occupation.” His voice drops again, and he slowly says, “Now that Howard has offered it, though, is it what you want? To be a doctor?” 

Bucky cries, “I don’t know! I don’t think I want anything at all in life if it doesn’t have you in it, and I am so sorry I tried to pretend otherwise, Tony. I am so, so sorry.”

Tony nods, kisses Bucky’s temple, and says, “I know, darling. I’m staying right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.” For a long time, Tony just lets Bucky melt against him, soak up his strength and the way Tony’s breath feels on his neck. Finally, Bucky feels able to lift up his head, and Tony’s right there, mouth meeting him half way. It’s gentle for two heartbeats, and then Tony tightens his arms again and Bucky’s control snaps. He pushes a demanding tongue past Tony’s lips, lapping up the groan the other man lets out. He pushes his hands under the soaked clothing, gripping the damp, clammy skin below until he can feel it warming under the attention.

Tony threads his fingers through Bucky’s hair and uses it to tug Bucky’s head around, granting Tony access to his neck. Tony scrapes his teeth along the stubble and then drags his tongue along Bucky’s neck, wrenching a gasp from him. Bucky growls, gets his hands down the back of Tony’s pants. He groans when his hands encounter the tight briefs, remembering how they went transparent and clingy when Tony emerged from the fountain. He pushes Tony up against the wall, rougher than he means to be, but Tony just moans and goes pliant within Bucky’s arms.

Everything slows down for a moment. Bucky’s gripping Tony’s shoulders hard enough to bruise, unable to let him go, but their kisses have gone gentle. Bucky nuzzles Tony’s face, pressing his body along Tony’s, and meets his lips again, so slow and sweet. Tony’s hands trip down his side, slipping in between their bodies to undo Bucky’s pants. Bucky pulls back, panting. Tony takes immediate advantage to get his hand down the front of Bucky’s pants and around his cock.

Bucky keens, hips twitching up into Tony’s grip, but he grabs on to Tony’s wrist to still him. “I want to open you up, love. I want to take you apart.”

Tony nods, eyes wide, before he attaches himself to Bucky’s neck again, sucking little kisses down to his chest. Bucky groans. He takes hold of Tony’s shoulders again and moves the other man back. “Tony, baby, where’s the slick, huh?”

Tony gulps and pulls back, slipping out of Bucky’s arms to trot over to a cabinet and pull out a tub of Vaseline. Bucky’s hands fly to his pants, quickly pushing them down and off. Tony hands off the little tub and starts to do the same. It takes very little time before they are arranging themselves on the floor. Tony grabs the knee pad from beside the roadster and soon Bucky is kneeling behind him with one hand in the Vaseline and one stroking up and down Tony’s thigh. Tony’s breathing is heavy and his hips keep twitching and Bucky is going to drive him out of his mind. He slowly sinks a finger into Tony’s tight passage.

Tony reaches behind him to snatch Bucky’s free hand from his leg and bring it to his mouth. Tony kisses the tip of each finger as Bucky works to loosen him. He laps lightly at Bucky’s middle finger before pulling two of them into his mouth. Bucky groans and pushes deeper into Tony’s ass, making the other man mewl around the fingers in his mouth. 

They’re both making breathless sounds now, and Bucky adds another finger the next time he thrusts into Tony. Tony writhes a bit under him and gasps, “More, please, James.” Bucky scissors his fingers in response, and Tony grunts his approval. He slowly relaxes, opening for Bucky. After so long together, Bucky knows damn well when Tony’s ready, but that doesn’t stop the man from grunting out, “Now, Buck, please, please.”

Bucky removes his fingers and lines himself up. He pushes in, and immediately has to grab at Tony’s upper thighs because Tony is so tight. He’s leaving finger-shaped bruises on Tony’s legs, and he knows from experience that they will be treasured by the other man until they fade away. He sees Tony’s toes curl, but he doesn’t stop the slow push forward until he is full seated. Tony arches against him, making Bucky tremble with the need to move. He waits, though, pressing the gentlest of kisses to the back of Tony’s neck, waits through Tony’s begging and twitching until he finally stills, submits to Bucky’s control. Then he pulls out, so slowly, before sliding home again. He puts a bit of a grind at the end of his thrust, wringing a delicious groan out of Tony. Bucky abandons his slow tease at that, helpless against his need to pound into Tony.

Tony is making a stream of nonsense sounds and grunts, eyes half-closed. His arms are scraping on the floor of the garage, and Bucky would stop for him to shift or put on a shirt, but he knows Tony would probably stab him with a screwdriver if he tried to do so now. Tony’s position is too precarious to get a hand on himself, so Bucky pries one of his own off of Tony’s thigh and reaches around to grasp Tony’s cock. It only takes a few strokes before he is coming with a choked-off shout of Bucky’s name. Bucky clamps his hand around Tony’s waist to still him and chases his own release. He has to bite down on Tony’s shoulder to muffle his scream when he comes, spilling into Tony. It feels like coming apart, his body trembles and his vision blacks for a moment. He comes back to himself to the sound of Tony’s whispered praise, “You’re so good, honey. Oh, god. Perfect, sugar, that was so so good.”

Bucky carefully pulls out and gathers his lover into his lap, leaning back against the wall. Their lips meet, and Bucky gently licks into Tony’s mouth. They share air for long moments as Bucky feels his heartbeat return to normal.

“I have to keep my distance for the visit,” Bucky says at last. Tony nods and lays his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Yes, let’s just get through this and we’ll be back home before you know it,” Tony agrees. “We still have time to think this through.”

*******************

Less than an hour later, Bucky heads back to the lodge and meets Bruce as he’s coming up the drive in the Rolls-Royce. Tony’s older brother is pleased to see him and invites Bucky to join them for dinner that evening. Howard has been delayed in the city, and Bruce is so affable and enthusiastic that Bucky’s agreed before he can think better of it. His stomach churns with nerves as Bruce continues on to the main house, but he can’t cancel now. Even pleading illness would be suspicious, considering Bruce noticed and complemented Bucky’s healthy flush and bounce to his step not two minutes ago. He hangs his head and groans.

*******************

Tony is positively buzzing. His elbows, hips and ass ache in a very pleasant way and he feels somehow closer to Bucky than ever. He knows how entwined they are, and not even Howard’s threats are going to bring them down. It will always be hard, hiding, but every moment is worth it. He’s nearly skipping around the garage, gathering supplies. This evening without Bucky is going to be tortuously long, so he’s working on a way to make it a little more bearable. He puts the finishing touches on his design when he hears the crunch of wheels on the gravel drive. He puts his shoulder into the large swinging door and manages to push one side and then the other open.

His mood lifts even further when he sees that Bruce is the sole occupant in the Rolls-Royce that has just pulled into the garage. He’s grinning fit to burst by the time he hauls Bruce out of the car and into a crushing hug. “Bruce!”

“Here’s the trouble maker!” Bruce returns the embrace with enthusiasm. 

“Oh, I am so relieved to see you, you monster. My mind has been atrophying without you.” Tony bounces over to the liquor cart he keeps in the corner, because he spends far more time here than up in the stuffy drawing room and it just makes sense. “Whiskey?”

“Please.” Bruce is still smiling indulgently at Tony, a pillar of calm in the center of Tony’s storm.

“Mother’s got another migraine and you’ve managed to lose Howard somehow. Well done there.”

“He’s stayed at the office. Some sort of crisis or another,” Bruce replies. He studies Tony for a moment and comments, “You’re looking well. Happy, even.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Tony retorts. “I am in the presence of genius!” he salutes Bruce with his drink, “and unexpectedly free of Howard! I ought to be positively alight!”

Bruce chuckles, sipping his own drink. “You remind me of Bucky. He was nearly skipping down the drive earlier. I told him to join us tonight.”

Tony feels his face fall, but he tries to affect boredom. “Oh, Bruce, you didn’t!”

“So, what if I did? I would think you’d be pleased. You normally can’t be persuaded to leave off talking about how _clever_ he is and what a help is it to have someone practical about when you’ve been breathing theoretical physics for hours down there in Boston.”

Tony ignores Bruce’s speech, truthful as it may be. “Have you got a cigarette?”

Bruce, Tony decides, is entirely too shrewd for anyone’s good. He frowns and asks, “Has something happened between you two?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Tony scoffs. “I’m going flying.” He stalks out of the garage in the direction of their little aircraft hangar. A few years ago, the building was little more than a modified shed, but Tony had put considerable effort into building his baby a proper home.

His chest feels tight as he goes through his pre-flight inspection. His new Piper Cub is an eye-searing yellow. He’s got plans to finish her with red accents, but there always seems to be a more pressing repair or upgrade to take care of first. 

He doesn’t draw a proper breath until he feels the wheels disengage from the runway. Here, he’s free of society’s restrictions. Here, he can pretend, for a moment, that his troubles won’t be waiting for him the moment he lands. He’s very persuasive, and for the duration of the flight he almost believes himself.

*******************

Safely ensconced in his bedroom, Bucky allows the morning’s events to pass through his mind on a continuous loop. Fear and passion play leap-frog in his chest. He feels too small for his own skin, hot and exhilarated. He recalls Tony’s voice raised in pleasure, barely muffled by Bucky’s hand. Tony’s chest heaving as rivulets of water streamed down it just after he pulled himself from the fountain. Tony’s eyes projecting the kind of love that would easily swallow Bucky whole, if he could but allow it to. 

He can’t. Rationally, he knows he won’t get to keep Tony. Maybe if they’d grown up two orphans, rooming together for an extended time excused as a consequence of their poverty, far from the eyes of the rich and powerful, then they would have half a chance. Tony’s put it off another day, another hour, but…

Bucky shakes his head. He’ll give Tony a chance to search out the stroke of genius that untangles this knot. He owes him that much.

He settles at his desk, brushing aside papers and closing the battered copy of Gray’s Anatomy he was skimming yesterday. He’ll come back to it, if he needs to. He drums his fingers along the desk’s edge. He picks through another stack of books, but his collection is unappealing this afternoon. He wants to go back to Tony, start on the engine diagnostics they were diverted from earlier. No, Bucky wants to go get him back for the stunt at the fountain. If he were still down in the garage, he would whisper filth in Tony’s ear whenever Bruce was out of earshot. 

Bucky heaves a huge sigh. Too dangerous, and not even strictly true. Mostly, he just wants to talk to his friend. He could write a letter, Bucky decides. He knows Tony will tease, but be secretly pleased at the gesture of propriety. He will have to be circumspect, naturally. He uncaps a pen and starts to write. Tony’s name flows over the clean stationary.

_Dear Tony,  
Please forgive me for the way I acted this afternoon._

His hand stops. But what if he didn’t have to be so careful? What if he could write a letter that would inspire more than a fond laugh? The fantasy, of presenting something racy to Tony, of the look in his eyes as he reads all of Bucky’s secret desires, burns him. 

He’s going to drive himself to madness with all the arguing in his head. That final thought drags a bitter laugh out of Bucky, because what harm could Howard to do him then? He puts the pen down and slowly pulls his typewriter closer to him. What if Howard truly couldn’t touch them? His fingers stretch over the keys, punching out a letter that would sear itself into Tony’s mind before he was forced to burn it.

 _My Tony,_  
_You have to know, that given the chance, I will devour you. I will push you to the edge, when you can do nothing but beg for mercy. There will be no thoughts in your head that are not of me, no mark on your skin that is not mine. My hands and the strength of my will to outlast all your cries will be all that is left in your world._  
_As you are mine,_  
_James_

He feels wild, out of control. The thoughts leave his mind and spring from his fingers to the typewriter. Bucky breathes shallowly, nearly overcome himself just from the pictures his mind paints. Tony, held on the edge of his pleasure, cursing at Bucky until even those words abandon him, until Bucky’s name and his love are all that exist in Tony’s universe. It is torture for the both of them, Bucky knows, but how sweet the release when granted!

He shifts to remove the sheet from the typewriter and groans as the action presses his swollen cock harder into his pants. He rips the letter from the machine and crumples it up before taking himself off to the bathroom. Bucky sets the tub to fill with lukewarm water and strips as quickly as he can. He tumbles into the tub, the sloshing water loud in the small room. He scoops a handful and rinses the sweat off his face and neck. The water feels divine, tickling a little when it runs down his chest, and Bucky shivers slightly. Each little sensation against his skin is magnified by his arousal, and Bucky wastes no time in taking himself in hand.

He lets his knees splay out against the sides of the tub and imagines Tony settling between his thighs, skin slick in the water. He would slide down Bucky’s chest, leaving biting kisses on his stomach. Bucky strokes himself as his imaginary Tony takes him in his mouth. He holds that picture in his mind and moves his hand faster in the water, pretending he can hear Tony’s moans over the sounds he’s making himself. He pushes himself higher with each beat of his heart until he’s wound himself up to the very edge. Suddenly, Tony’s not between his knees anymore, he’s stretched up and snuggled into Bucky’s side. Bucky can almost feel his lips on his ear when Tony whispers, “I love you, Bucky Barnes. Whatever happens, I’ll always be your heart.” His actual heart spasms in his chest at the words and Bucky comes with a long sigh.

He savors the waves of pleasure, finally slipping his head under the water. It closes over him, cool and quiet, and he lets himself believe that everything is going to work out. They will satisfy Maria Stark’s desire to have everyone at the estate periodically and then they will return home more secure in each other. Tony will go back to his graduate studies and his tinkering and Bucky to his job at the mechanic’s. They will make love smelling like the inside of an engine and Tony will smile at Bucky like he is the center of his universe. His lungs protest, and he surfaces, lets air and reality rush back into him. He settles back against the tub, frowning. They are going to have to be extremely careful. Howard’s not above spying on his middle son, convinced that Tony is wasting his time with another degree when he could be starting at the company, his brilliance turned towards destruction at Howard’s side. 

Bucky stares up at the skylight above him. He hears the buzz of a propeller a moment before Tony’s plane flies overhead, untouchable, remote. The symbolism isn’t lost on Bucky. Even if their relationship wasn’t considered an abomination, Tony is so far above Bucky that it should never have even been possible. In another life, if Tony hadn’t been born with the largest, most caring heart Bucky had ever seen, they would have been minor acquaintances, and Tony would have ignored him, even as they attended the same university. Tony would have his private school pals, he would politely nod at Bucky and do his best to avoid speaking to him in front of company. Surely that was what Howard had always expected of Tony. That man was incapable of recognizing the goodness in his son, no doubt due to lack of familiarity with the concept in his own life. Thank God he had been delayed today. Bucky _wants_ to go to dinner tonight; to shower Steve’s art with praise, to listen to Bruce’s stories, and to drink Tony in, for as many moments as he can steal away from the cruelty of the world.

[](https://78.media.tumblr.com/262bf12a0a0c5ef98c7c1f87662986a1/tumblr_oy8kec2m081tfkbiwo1_1280.jpg)  
Art by [explodingcrenelation](http://explodingcrenelation.tumblr.com/)

Bucky sighs and finishes his wash. He dresses, careful with the freshly pressed white shirt. His mother was generous with the starch, he can barely swallow behind the collar. A glance at his scuffed pocket watch tells him that it’s not too early to head up to the main house, so he stuffs the timepiece into his pants and hurries out the door, eager to start the evening.

Bucky reigns himself in as he takes to the road back to the Stark house. He doesn’t want to show up dirt-scuffed and sweaty. The heat still clings to the day and the sun has gone a buttery gold in the Western sky. He comes to a large bridge, the stream beneath burbling happily in the late afternoon. There’s also a somewhat rhythmic _thwipping_ noise which Bucky cannot seem to place until he looks over the edge of the grey stone railings.

Stevie is playing along the bank of the stream, attacking the reeds with a stick which, going by his form, is acting as a stand-in for a sword. Bucky takes a moment to watch him, thinking of the differences between the Stark sons. Steve is so slight and thin. His fair hair is positively gleaming in the late afternoon light. He is the only one who inherited Maria Stark’s coloring and her stature. Bruce takes almost entirely after Howard, with dark hair and eyes and broader shoulders. Tony is something in between. His coloring and facial features are very like Howard, but he is smaller than both his father and older brother. Steve’s fine-boned wrists and the long-fingered hands clasping the stick look a great deal like Tony’s, but Tony’s body is strong. He has a healthy solidity that Steve has yet to develop.

The boy is intent in his battle against the plant life, his bony arms flexing with the effort of swinging the wooden weapon. His face is flushed and his chest is already heaving. He’s going to give himself an attack at this rate.

“Stevie?” Bucky calls. Stevie turns, obviously startled. He peers up at Bucky for a long moment, before carefully lowering the makeshift weapon. “Are you alright?” Bucky asks. Steve nods, still too out of breath to really respond. Bucky stuffs his hands in his pockets, awkward. He doesn’t know how to act around Tony’s brother. Is he is still distancing himself from the rest of the Starks, in order to partially satisfy Howard’s edict and distract from the fact that he will secretly remain in Tony’s life? He wishes there had been time to discuss this with Tony. He fumbles for his lighter before realizing that it isn’t in his pocket where it should be. He doesn’t have it on him at all. He glances back along the drive and down at his carefully polished shoes.

“Are you alright?” Stevie asks, startling Bucky. He’s much closer than Bucky expects; he hadn’t noticed the boy scrambling up the bank to join him. He seizes on the distraction.

“I’m afraid I’ve left my lighter on my desk, and another trip to the lodge and back will just about do this polish in.” He clicks the heels of his black brogues together lightly. Steve stares at Bucky’s feet for a moment and then takes off up the lane.

“Stevie!”

“It’s alright! I’ll get it for you, Buck!” Steve shouts back.

“Don’t run, you’ll lose your breath! STEVIE!” Bucky cups his hands around his mouth and shouts for him, but Stevie is either out of hearing or deliberately ignoring him. Bucky dithers on the bridge, considering whether to go after him, but eventually continues on his way to the main house. Stevie gets very prickly about his various ailments, and his pride would be wounded if Bucky were to follow after him now, when Stevie was trying to do a favor for his friend. The last thing Bucky needs is to call attention to himself tonight. He consoles himself somewhat with the knowledge that his mother is home and will fuss over Stevie herself if necessary. If he doesn’t make it to dinner, Bucky will telephone himself or ask one of the house boys to check for him.

*******************

 _It’s not fair!_ Steve’s hands are sweating where he’s gripping the hazel switch. He takes another swing at the nettles growing around him. The plants mostly bend around his strikes, but a few bits of green go flying up into the air. It feels like his blood is steaming in him, and he’s going to boil over if he doesn’t take it out on something, even though his breath is starting to get shorter and if he could, he would stop.

He’d heard Mrs. Barnes complaining to Mrs. Jarvis earlier about the amount of silver polish she went through just to have Mr. Stark decide not to show up to dinner. Mrs. Jarvis teased that she would have done it anyway to get a look at herself in the spoons. Mrs. Barnes had scoffed mightily at that and asked who could even detect her little vanity with all the ego flying around this estate. The women laughed at that, and Steve had wandered away, disappointment causing a lump in his throat.

He swats the nettles again. 

He’s just so sick of it! He’s sick of being sick all the time, sick of being alone, sick of being stuck here at the estate while his father and brothers get to go live actual lives. Just leave the _child_ out of it. Steve snarls.

“Stevie?”

Steve turns to see Bucky standing at the bridge. He looks real nice, like he cared to get clean and put on his suit and see the family. Steve feels some of his anger ebb. At least Bucky’s here tonight. He drops his makeshift weapon and goes up to meet his friend while grudgingly admitting to himself that Bruce made the effort to come up alone even without Howard and Mr. Jarvis. And of course, Tony will be there, lighting up the room with his charm. By the time he’s drawn level with Bucky, he’s feeling better, and rather kindly towards the man for reminding him of all the people who _are_ here, not just the one who isn’t. 

He jumps at the chance to return Bucky’s kindness and takes off towards the lodge to get his lighter. He’s eager enough that he doesn’t notice how hard he is pushing himself until his lungs are practically screaming at him.

“Steve? Everything alright, dear?” Mrs. Barnes asks.

Oh, good, he’s made it to the lodge. He’d gone away, a bit, there. Steve nods, but he can’t help the way his chest is heaving, and the saliva is too bitter in his mouth for him to speak, so she makes him sit down in the kitchen and have a glass of water. Finally, he can pull in enough breath to tell her about his errand and that he has to get back to the house soon or he will be late to dinner and upset his mother. Mrs. Barnes waves him upstairs.

He goes to Bucky’s desk, wrinkling his nose a little at the mess of papers, books and ashtrays, and starts shifting things around to look for the lighter. A half-crumpled page falls onto the floor at his feet and Steve bends to get it. He doesn’t necessarily _mean_ to read the page, but it’s not like he can look at words without his brain understanding them. Anyway, it says Tony, so it’s not like it’s business papers or something.

Except the rest of the letter doesn’t make any sense. So, Steve reads it again. He doesn’t notice how fast his breath is coming until he nearly falls, black spots dancing in his eyes, when he tries to look up at the desk to see if there is anything else. He clutches the side of the desk until his vision clears a little and then searches through the other papers. There’s an additional letter to Tony, a bit of aborted prose that actually makes sense for Bucky to write. Not…this. What could Bucky mean by this aggressive…thing? Steve reads the few lines again.

_My hands and the strength of my will…_

Is it a threat? How could Bucky – Steve thought they were friends!

Steve thinks of Tony, the way his smile flashes so quick on his face, the way he was so impatient for the next exciting thing, but always willing to wait for Steve to catch up, the way that he dotes on their mother. No. Whatever problems Bucky is causing Tony, Steve isn’t going to stand for it. He jams the paper into his pocket, waits a moment to see if he is going to throw up from the exertion and shock, and then manages to drag his body back down the lane. He has to get to his brother.

*******************

Tony stares down at his bright green vest. Bucky likes the color on him and he is being the exact opposite of subtle, but it’s not going to be a problem because his family would never guess. He tries to focus on his discomfort. His suit is stifling, and he finds his mind wandering back to his impromptu swim earlier that day with more than a touch of longing. Shaking his head, he lifts the whiskey to his lips again. He is comfortably settled in the cushions of the large window seat. Bruce leans against the frame opposite him, looking out over the garden with a slight furrow between his eyebrows.

His brother has been droning on about the war on their doorstep. Something about taking responsibility and coming to work with Howard. Tony shies away from the worry that nibbles around the edges of his mind, until Bruce’s next sentence brings it rushing to the forefront of his attention.

“We’ll have to open at least two new factories, more if they start calling up the draft.”

Tony makes a valiant effort to seem uninterested, to choke down the rush of bile in his throat when his mind provides him with a vivid image of Bucky in some muddy hole, a Stark rifle cold comfort in the darkness. Tony sucks in a sharp breath, waving away Bruce’s look of concern. Fortunately, his brother is distracted by the entrance of Bucky himself. The two shake hands and Tony busies himself fixing another drink. He startles, nearly upsetting the decanter when he hears a low, “You alright?” over his shoulder. Bucky is leaning close under the pretext of getting his own drink. Tony squeezes his eyes shut and nods. He wants nothing more than to be back at home, cocooned in bed with Bucky instead of maintaining the careful foot of space between them. He wants to grab Bucky and run, so far that the world couldn’t possibly reach him.

The conversation continues, ebbing slowly through the various merits of gin, Bruce’s favored drink, compared to other liquors and to their studies at MIT. Tony relaxes. When he’s not acting as their father’s mouthpiece, Bruce is one of his favorite conversation partners. Tony is laughing again soon, pulling faces and pretending to gag at the ridiculous cocktail names his brother is coming up with. He’s having fun, so it takes him a while to realize that Bucky himself isn’t. He’s twitching, pacing from the door to the drawing room and back to the window, looking out down the lane and grimacing each time he sees it empty. Finally, Tony can’t stand to watch him make another circuit and calls, “Bucky, God, man, what’s the matter?”

Bucky blushes, a little, and Tony has to remind himself not to stare. “I’m watching for Stevie,” he admits. “He ran up to the lodge for me and I’m worried he’s given himself a fit.”

Tony feels his lips tug down into a frown. “We’ll send one of the house boys up after him.”

“I should go. I shouldn’t have let him go in the first place, but you know how he gets,” Bucky sighs.

“No need,” Bruce calls from the window. All three men peer out to see the skinny figure come barreling up the drive. His face is still red a few moments later when he bursts into the drawing room.

“Stevie!” Bruce cries and steps forward to embrace his youngest brother. Steve returns the hug, his chest heaving. “Let’s get you sat down, okay?” Bruce coaxes, trying to steer him towards a couch. The tiny blond head shakes, emphatically, and then Steve is launching himself at Tony. Tony manages to catch him, and has barely righted the boy on his feet when Steve starts pulling him away from the others.

A delicately cleared throat brings their attention to the doorway, where Mrs. Jarvis is standing with her hands on her hips. “Stevie, it’s time to get changed for dinner,” she announces, voice slightly scolding.

“But…” Steve starts to protest.

“Now.” Bruce and Tony’s voices ring out in unison. Honestly, Steve should know better than crashing about in his muddy play clothes before dinner. Tony looks on in puzzlement as his younger brother takes another labored breath before obediently shuffling out of the room.

“And for goodness’ sake, slow down for a moment and breathe, okay?” Tony says to his back.

He can’t quite put his finger on it, but after Steve’s outburst, the atmosphere becomes strained. Bucky is _still_ twitchy, keeping his distance from Tony. Although that’s exactly what they discussed doing, the distance feels more insurmountable with every passing minute. Bruce has turned morose, making sporadic comments about the way a war in Europe would change the production needs of the upstate factories. Tony feels like he could jitter out of his skin. 

Time stretches like taffy; the heat saps any enthusiasm Tony may have had for this evening. He’s just about to bail out, and drive Bucky back to Cambridge himself when his mother comes by the door to announce dinner.

She looks tired. Maria Stark is perfectly put together, of course. Her purple silk dress swirls around her ankles as she walks towards the dining room. Tony stares at her retreating figure, at her perfectly pinned hair. The signs are subtle, but Tony knows his mother. She’s worn down, the stress of the heat and Howard’s ongoing absence dragging against her. He exchanges a look with Bruce. Time to go be attentive sons and try to fill the gap.

They shuffle into the smaller dining room. Maria has settled at the head of the table with a glass of wine. Bruce sits down on her left, leaving Tony to take the seat at her right. Bucky slips into the seat beside Tony. Almost as soon as his weight has settled into the chair, there is a choked, furious noise from the doorway.

Tony’s shocked when he realizes that it’s Steve. His little brother is standing with his hands balled on his hips. His face is still flushed above his starched collar and black bow tie, but it’s his eyes that really give Tony pause. He’s glaring at Bucky as if he could set the man alight with his intensity. Maria is the quickest to recover, saying sharply, “Steven!”

Steve manages a deep breath before meeting their mother’s eyes. She continues, “Sit down, now, Stevie. What’s gotten into you? I’ve never seen you like this.” He shakes his head and sullenly settles into the last chair, next to Bruce.

Maria’s eyes narrow when no explanation or apology is forthcoming from her youngest son. “It was always my view that hot weather encouraged hotter tempers. I expect you to keep a better reign on yours. You don’t see your brothers bashing about, throwing nasty looks unprovoked.”

Silence falls as wine is poured for the men, and the food is brought out. Tony eats with one hand, managing a quick touch to Bucky’s leg under the table here and there. Quiet conversation resumes between the adults until Steve breaks in with a low, “What if it was provoked?”

“I beg your pardon?” 

Steve’s glare is back on Bucky, and Tony feels his stomach clench unpleasantly. What is his brother playing at? Steve opens his mouth to reply, but Tony beats him to the punch. “Except it’s not been provoked. Bucky has every right to sit at this table. He’s been invited.”

Confusion crosses over Steve’s face and he sputters, “That wasn’t what I meant at all.”

“Oh, really? You’re not joining in with Howard this time? His perfect little mimic? You’re _not_ glaring down at Bucky from your supposed superior birth?” Tony cuts himself off with great difficulty. He can see what his mother meant, the fury rising in his breast meets the heat of his brow and it feels like he is going to combust on the spot. He strangles down the rest of his words, railing internally against his family and their notions of class.

Bucky’s looking panicked now. He starts to extend a hand to Tony and manages to snatch it back. “I should leave, this is a family concern,” he says.

Maria nods, dismissing him, but softens it with an order to pick up some food for himself from the kitchen. Bucky leaves without a backwards glance, his steps measured and his shoulders straight. Tony aches to go after him, practically vibrating with the need to stand up and walk out of here, but he stays put and stares at his unfinished plate.

“I demand an explanation,” Maria says. “I didn’t raise you boys to bicker and sulk at the dinner table.” 

Tony keeps his mouth closed, he can’t explain the depth of his anger to his mother. Steve is still breathing hard and hasn’t eaten a thing, but looks like he is gearing up to say something, eyes darting from Tony to Maria and back. 

Whatever he’s planning to say is derailed a moment later by a distant crash. The noise, faint as it is, disturbs the silence still hovering in Bucky’s wake. Tony closes his eyes and takes a bracing breath. He’d forgotten the distraction he had rigged up earlier that afternoon. The trip weight must have finally reached the balance. Bruce is eyeing him expectantly, which is fair. Tony’s usually the cause of major garage or laboratory mishaps.

He gets to his feet and leans over to kiss his mother’s cheek. “What now?” she asks, but her expression has turned indulgent. She often couldn’t help but be amused by his antics and Tony is grateful that held this evening.

“That sounded like it came from the garage. I’m going to have to make sure nothing is on fire.” He pauses. “Again.” He turns sharply and hurries from the room before Bruce or, heaven forbid, Steve offers to help him.

He meets Bucky hurrying back along the hallway. “Tony,” he hisses, “what on earth was that?”

“Purposefully loud,” Tony replies. He tugs lightly at Bucky’s sleeve as he passes, heading away from the dining room. He doesn’t look back at Bucky, doesn’t break his stride, until they are in the dim library at the far end of the house. Bucky follows him in, nudging the door closed with his hip. Tony crosses to the large desk, flicks on the lamp, and turns to face his lover.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers.

“I want to go home,” Tony replies, backing up. Bucky matches his steps, slowly drawn further into the room. “First thing tomorrow, we’re packing up and making the drive back. Before Howard can get here to stick his nose in. I don’t want to sort out Stevie’s problems, I don’t want to hear another lecture from Bruce.” Tony’s back gently bumps the bookshelves behind him. He meets Bucky’s eyes and admits, “I don’t want to expend another breath if it isn’t in your arms.”

Tony knows Bucky will at least respond to that and readies himself for a quick embrace, the barest assurance that they could allow themselves. Instead, Bucky reaches out slowly. Tony is carefully drawn in, until their faces are a scant few inches apart. Bucky breathes, slowly, over Tony’s lips before kissing him briefly and pulling back. Tony stares into beautiful blue eyes for a moment, feeling his own start to prickle with tears. 

Bucky kisses him again, this time a long, passionate, breathless thing. Tony breathes a sigh when Bucky gives him a bare moment. At the sound, Bucky lets out a low growl and pushes Tony back into the bookshelves. The impact jolts Tony into action. He tears at the buttons on Bucky’s shirt, desperate to get to soft, warm skin. His hand slips along Bucky’s stomach and down to his waistband, making quick work of the fasteners. He moves his hand between them, down the front of Bucky’s pants. Tony pushes his fingers into the nest of coarse hair before wrapping his fingers around Bucky’s cock.

Bucky’s breath shakes, and he buries his face in Tony’s neck. Tony tightens his grip and Bucky rolls his hips into it. His hands tremble as they move from Tony’s shoulders down to his hips before his fingers undo Tony’s own carefully tucked in shirt. Tony groans at the feel of Bucky’s hands on his skin and he uses his free hand to tug at Bucky’s hair, lifting his face up for a biting kiss. Bucky meets him with equal fervor and Tony has to reach up with his other hand and link them both around Bucky’s neck, just holding on as best he can.

Bucky is his anchor, his solid pillar in the storms Tony manages to induce in their lives despite his best efforts. Even when the storm is _this_ , this flurry of passion, of almost too much and never _ever_ enough, Bucky is here for him. Sure enough, Bucky gentles himself just as Tony starts to be overwhelmed. His hands settle on Tony’s hips, slowly encouraging Tony to turn around and face the shelves. Tony stubbornly keeps his lips on Bucky’s until the position grows too awkward. He pouts when the kiss breaks, and is rewarded with a low chuckle and Bucky whispering, “sweetheart,” in his ear. Bucky’s voice is barely more than a breath, but it sends a fierce shudder down Tony’s spine.

“I can. Please, Bucky, I’m still ready from earlier, please just, be in me, love, please,” he pleads, somewhat futilely. Bucky usually takes his time, no matter how much Tony insists. Bucky gently lowers Tony’s pants to his knees, skimming his hands along Tony’s legs. Tony’s ready to grind back against Bucky, to remind him of their haste, and even to beg if needed, but Bucky shocks him utterly by bending at his knees and entering Tony with one smooth thrust.

It hurts.

Tony gasps sharply, feels his grip on the shelves go white-knuckled. Bucky freezes, body trembling. Tony tries to breathe quietly, and manages to whisper, “Bucky?”

“Tony.” Bucky’s voice is remorseful and equally quiet. He hasn’t moved.

“I love you.”

Bucky leans forward, slowly, to press a kiss just above Tony’s collar. “I love you,” he replies. Tony feels the warmth of his breath on his neck, feels Bucky shift inside him. It sends another zing through his core, and he deliberately relaxes. A few more moments to adjust and he nods his head.

Bucky starts moving, and Tony gasps again, but there’s less pain to it this time, and Bucky doesn’t stop. His hand slides up Tony’s arm to grip his wrist, tight. Tony is surrounded by the smell of books and Bucky. When Bucky’s other hand wraps around Tony’s cock, he surrenders to the sensations. Tony lets the rest of the world fade and everything is the man behind him, the way that Bucky’s hand works on Tony’s cock, the way that Bucky’s hitting that spot inside Tony that lights him up like a bonfire. He hears his breath hitching from far away, vaguely aware of how Bucky has sped up, punching the little exhales from Tony with each thrust, but that thought is soon swept away as his orgasm breaks over him.

Bucky grunts and clamps both hands down on Tony. Tony thinks he’s probably going to have bruises from the strength of Bucky’s grip, but he is hardly complaining. After a few more thrusts, Bucky is biting into his neck and jerking through his own release. Tony hisses when Bucky lets go of his wrist, but stays comfortably crushed between the shelves and his lover for a moment longer. Bucky struggles to get his breath back, and his chest presses gently into Tony with each gasp.

He can’t help the hiss that escapes when Bucky pulls out of him.

“Tony?” Steve’s voice, high with fear, cracks through the quiet between Tony and Bucky.

Steve. Stevie is here. Oh _no._ Tony goes rigid, panic crashing into him. Bucky, thank heaven, is quicker to react, getting Tony’s pants back up in a blink. Tony twists, and their fingers fly over their buttons, getting their pants done up. It’s all they manage before Steve is crying and flinging himself around the desk to punch at Bucky. “I won’t let you hurt him, you – you _bully_!”

“What’s the meaning of all this?” Howard booms from the doorway. 

Tony feels all the blood in his body turn to ice.

*******************

Steve stares down at his food, but can’t bring himself to eat anything more. The few bites he’d managed before Tony excused himself sit like a weight in his stomach. Neither Bruce nor his mother address him again, holding a quiet discussion about someone or other’s daughter, but his brother does frown at Steve and silently offer him more lemonade.

Steve shakes his head. His fingers stray to his pocket where the letter is hidden. Maybe he should have brought it out right away. Maybe then his brother would be more careful and Bucky wouldn’t have been able to get so close to him. It’s nearly unimaginable, like something from a play, that someone he’d known as long as Bucky would be capable of threatening someone like Tony. Tony, who never hurt anyone, who just wanted to tinker and fly his plane and be left alone. And jump in the fountain, apparently. Was it something Tony said during that strange encounter? Were they fighting this morning? Bucky made it sound like he wanted to _torture_ his brother, given the chance. Well, Steve’s not going to give him one. He’s just about to speak up when they hear footsteps echo up the hallway. Steve looks toward the doorway in time to see Mr. Jarvis open the door and Howard stride in.

Howard Stark is always out of patience. Steve rarely sees the man when he isn’t ranting about production deadlines or when is Tony going to graduate or why isn’t the pork finished yet. This evening is no exception. He has clearly just arrived, his hair windswept and his clothing rumpled and sweaty. He is already complaining bitterly. “The whole garage is an utter disaster! Ball bearings scattered all over the floor, tools not properly stowed. It’s not fit for someone of his abilities to waste his time bashing about - ” Howard leans down to kiss his wife, barely breaking stride in his rant – “with that kind of nonsense. Hello, Maria, boys. And then to just skip off to God-knows-where, since he’s clearly not here!”

“Hello, Howard. What nonsense do you mean now?”

“Your Tony set up a trap for me in the garage, a whole shelf’s worth of material came down almost on my head! I’ll lick him good for that one, where is he?”

Maria frowns. “He said there was an accident in the garage and went to look in. Did you not see him?”

“He’s not there at all, the little rat,” Howard seethes.

Bruce is frowning now, too. “Did you see Bucky?”

“Barnes? No, what the devil does he have to do with anything?”

“We had him up for dinner, of course,” Maria replies, “but he had to leave.” She glances down the table to Steve.

The implications hit Steve like a slap. Tony is missing. Bucky is out there somewhere. Oh, God, what if it’s too late to stop him? Steve jumps to his feet, screaming, “Bucky’s going to hurt Tony!” He wills his parents to believe him. “Come on, we have to find them!”

He doesn’t wait another moment, charging out of the dining room. His family’s shocked questions slip out behind him, but Steve doesn’t stop. His legs are already tired and rubbery from his run back from the lodge. His mind conjures images of Tony, bruised and bloody, and Steve finds a way to make his limbs move. He’s gasping for breath after only a few feet. He doesn’t hear his family following him. They’re probably asking themselves if Steve’s gone mad. It feels as though he might have. How could this be happening? He starts across the main foyer, checking rooms as he runs, ears straining over the sound of his own crashing heartbeat.

Steve feels his eyes prickle. He could have stopped this if he’d only controlled his temper in the dining room! He should have convinced Bruce before Bucky could get Tony alone like this. He makes his way down another hallway, checking in side rooms with increasing desperation. The last door on the left is the library, and then he’s going to have to decide whether to try upstairs or double back and convince the staff to start searching the grounds.

The library door isn’t fully latched, and Steve manages to shoulder the heavy thing aside, but there’s no one there either. He’s turning to leave when he hears a low hum, and suddenly feels wrongfooted. He holds his breath, quietly moving back into the room and now he can make out a rustling sound coming from the corner. The lit desk lamp doesn’t help much, but if he strains his eyes he can make out a shape in the gloom.

Another moan and Steve freezes, baffled. What’s happening? He rocks back on his heels, tempted to get Bruce or his father instead. This is not what Steve expected to find.

There’s another sound and Steve is still very confused, but it might have been Tony. He licks his lips and manages to say his brother’s name. His voice is shaking, but it’s loud in his ears. His eyes adjust to the dim light, well enough for Steve to see there are two other people in the room. There’s a flurry of movement and then one of them shifts back enough for Steve to see it’s them. Bucky and Tony. Bucky has Tony crowded into a dark corner and Tony looks absolutely terrified.

Steve’s confusion evaporates under the heat of his anger. How dare Bucky do this? He dives towards the villain, fists swinging. He lands a punch or two, satisfied at the way Bucky grunts in pain, before Tony drags him back. His brother yells for Steve to stop, but he doesn’t, not until his father’s arrival. Steve’s never been so glad to hear Howard’s angry bellowing. It freezes everyone, and Steve manages to break free from his brother’s hold. He squares his shoulders and says, “Bucky’s been bullying Tony. He’s gonna hurt him!”

“What?!” Tony squawks, eyes huge in his face.

“That’s unexpected. I thought we had an agreement, Mr. Barnes.” Howard’s voice has gone quiet, but it’s the silky, angry tone that usually means someone is going to be fired.

Bucky clenches his hands into tight fists but doesn’t answer. Tony moves to stand in front of him. “To hell with your agreements, old man. This is outrageous!” Tony growls. “Bucky has never hurt me, ever, and I won’t stand for your underhanded classist bullshit.”

“He wants to though!” Steve shouts. He shrinks, a little, under the stares of the three men, but manages to continue, “Bucky wants to hurt you. I read it, in his room when I went to get his lighter. I should have shown you before, but he wrote - ”

Steve’s cut off by a strangled shout. Bucky’s gripping Tony’s shoulders, and he has gone white as a sheet. Steve feels vindicated. “You can’t think you could threaten a Stark and get away with it,” he says. He pulls the letter from his pocket and hands it to his father, ignoring Bucky’s panicked “No!” There’s another scuffle where Tony grabs onto Bucky instead, keeping him from running at Howard.

Howard reads the typed lines quickly, before folding the paper and slipping it into his own pocket. “Thank you, Stevie.” He narrows his eyes at Bucky and smiles. It’s a cold smile. “What explanation would you like to give for this, then?” he asks. “Because I am starting to think that you are taking far more advantage than I have always assumed. And to think I was going to allow you to become a doctor.” As he speaks, Howard sheds his cold control; his voice rises steadily until he is shouting.

Steve looks back at Tony, but his older brother doesn’t jump in to the shouting match the way he normally would. His face is still pale and his eyes are darting around, as if he’s desperately looking for something.

Bucky looks…sad. He’s not looking around at all; his downcast eyes stay on the floor as he says, “What will it take to have the letter returned to one of us or destroyed?”

Howard’s hands are balled up in angry fists, but he clears his throat and when he speaks he uses his bargaining voice. “I think I like Stevie’s interpretation, don’t you? He does have such a good imagination. You were threatening Tony, and any judge would understand jealousy or greed on your part.” Steve doesn’t understand what he means by that. His interpretation?

“What?” Tony gasps.

“And Tony?” Bucky asks, ignoring the man in question.

“Well. Neither one of us wants to see what being arrested would do to someone like Tony. It doesn’t have to come to that.”

Bucky closes his eyes, and Steve is shocked to see tears fall down his cheeks. He grabs Tony’s hand, squeezing tight enough to make Tony gasp. “Bucky. Don’t. Don’t you dare!”

“I thought I could get more money if I played on Tony’s regard,” Bucky whispers.

“No!” Tony shouts.

That makes sense to Steve. Tony had just been saying that this morning, about Bucky moving in a different circle. There’s something wrong, though, with Bucky’s voice. His tone is completely flat, like a malfunctioning radio, and he isn’t looking at Tony, despite Tony’s frantic pulling at his hand. Bucky continues, “He refused, and I decided to try to scare him into agreeing to help me out.” 

“You were attempting to intimidate my son.” Howard says, and he sounds like one of Steve’s tutors when he’s being led to an answer.

“You can’t do this!” Tony cries.

“Yes.” Bucky’s answer is barely audible. 

“A straightforward case, I should think,” Howard continues, still addressing Bucky, but staring now at Tony. “I’m sure that explains his…state.” Howard’s gaze drifts to Tony’s neck. Tony’s mouth drops open, but he doesn’t protest again.

“Jarvis?” Howard calls, “I need you to make a phone call to the police. Bucky has a confession to make. Bruce? Please escort your brothers back to the dining room. It would be a shame to miss dessert over this unfortunate incident.”

Steve jumps when Bruce shuffles carefully into the room; he hadn’t realized that the others were there as well. Maria hovers in the doorway, staring at Bucky and Tony, who are still clinging to one another.

Bruce slides a hand down Tony’s arm, gently tugging it out of Bucky’s grasp. Bucky is staring at the floor again, shoulders stooped as if under a great weight. Tony is shaking, his face deeply flushed and hate shining out of eyes wet with tears. Bruce whispers to Tony, low voice pitched to be soothing, “Not now, Tony. You can’t help now.” Bruce pushes Tony towards Maria. She catches his sleeve in a tight fist and pulls him down the hallway.

Bruce lingers a moment. He reaches out a gentle hand and places it on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says in the same low voice.

Steve is starting to get a sinking feeling that he’s missed something. Bruce shoos him out of the room, but Steve drags his feet long enough to hear Howard sneer, “You’re an idiot and a martyr, Barnes, but I suppose I should be glad you’re a noble one.” He chances a last glimpse at Bucky, who is holding his arms crossed against his stomach as if he is trying not to throw up. He looks small, and the picture makes Steve feel a little unsettled himself.

“Bruce?” he asks when they’re alone in the hallway.

“Don’t,” his brother sighs. “I have to get back to Tony. Can you please go pack his travel bag, Steve?”

“What?” Steve screeches. “But B-Bucky’s going away! Tony’s safe now.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, glaring down at Steve. Steve feels his mouth snap closed, confusion and sickening remorse swirling in his gut. Bruce takes a deep breath and says, “Tony is only as safe as we make him now. I need to make sure that he isn’t left alone with Father and you need to make sure that he is able to leave as soon as he can. Father will make sure that this doesn’t get out, but he’s only going to help as far as he needs to so as to save face.”

His brother turns away and Steve knows how futile it would be to keep asking for an explanation now. He turns to climb the stairs. Each step feels like his feet are lead weights. He stuffs some of Tony’s shirts into his suitcase, scooping a large pile of pants from the chair in the corner up as well. His things will be wrinkled, but Steve is starting to think that will be the least of Tony’s concerns.

Steve doesn’t _understand_. They had been strange around each other all day. His brother had been tense and snappish, just like someone who had been threatened but couldn’t say anything about it. And Bucky was there in the morning, but he didn’t stick around when Steve came by. If Bucky was so innocent, why was he being so cagey? And Tony _did_ sound like he’d been hurt just now. Maybe Bucky was pushing him around, or pinching him, when Steve found them in the library.

Steve shoves the suitcase closed. The latch engages with a quiet click. He sits on Tony’s bed and feels sort of numb. He saved Tony tonight. He is the hero here. So, why does Steve feel so hollow? Outside, a car pulls up the gravel drive. The front door opens and closes.

He stares into the dark corners of his brother’s bedroom until he hears the front door _slam_ open. He sits up quickly, scrambling up to the window to peer out to the front drive. Bucky is there, still in his dinner suit, but his hands are cuffed in front of him. Two policemen flank him, steering him down the front steps. One strides ahead to get into their car, but Bucky stops suddenly, turning towards the house.

“Tony!” Maria’s shout carries up to where Steve is watching from above. He shifts closer to the glass, trying to see what’s happening.

His brother, ignoring his mother’s shout, runs to Bucky. Bucky starts towards him, pulling away from the surprised policeman. Tony catches hold of Bucky’s lapels and whispers in his ear. He only has a moment before the policeman catches hold of Bucky and tugs Tony’s hands away. His expression is sour as he shoves Bucky into the car.

The car door closes with a muffled thud and Steve watches Tony break. His brother cries, standing in the dark, while the engine turns over. There’s another shout, and Mrs. Barnes comes flying out of the house. She’s screaming, trying to get to the car, but Mr. Jarvis and Rebecca from the kitchen hold her back. Her cries are loud enough that Steve can hear her anguish from the bedroom and he swallows heavily. 

“Liars. _Liars!_ ”

Steve closes his eyes and walks steadily back to his own room. Once he pulls the door closed, he can’t hear her any longer.


	2. Chapter 2: 1943 - 1947

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork is now posted to the first chapter. If you haven't had the pleasure, go back and check it out. I cannot praise it enough, and it fits so perfectly with the feel of the story. More to come Sunday!

Bucky can feel the nerves worming through his stomach as he approaches the crowded coffee shop. He draws even with the glass door and catches sight of Tony for the first time in years. He looks just the same, Bucky thinks. Which is just objectively untrue. His hair is somehow wilder, he is thinner and pale and his blue suit doesn’t fit just so anymore. But. To Bucky, he looks just the same. The man Bucky will always be in love with.

His lungs seize up on him, like a fist tightening in his chest. Oh, God. He hasn’t seen Tony in years and now he only has two days’ leave. Two days, and he’s off to Italy. They say the Italian campaign is brutal, though he has yet to hear anyone speak of one that isn’t in this war.

This could be the last time they ever see each other.

That thought spikes panic through Bucky and he’s hurrying down the street before he realizes he’s started walking. An old man bumps into Bucky, and he pulls to an abrupt stop. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he apologizes. The man waves him off, scoffing through a bristly white mustache. Bucky forces himself to take a deep breath and carefully heads back to the coffee shop.

When he approaches the door this time, Tony is standing beside the little table, eyes locked on Bucky. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, but his eyes are huge and as expressive as ever, shining with hope and fear alike. Bucky can’t look away as he approaches the table. Tony’s quivering where he stands.

Bucky claps both hands on Tony’s shoulders, and Tony grips Bucky’s forearms. It’s a friendly greeting, while at the same time enforcing the distance between them. 

It’s agony. He’s touching Tony again, and he can’t stop his traitorous thumb from stroking Tony’s neck, just briefly. He stares down into those eyes, and the voice of caution in his head, the caution he neglected years ago, is a claxon now. He drops his hands. 

“Hello,” Tony whispers, barely louder than the clinking, murmuring sounds of the shop around them.

“Hello.” Bucky hopes Tony can still hear all the endearments he can’t say. There’s a short silence between them; Bucky still hasn’t managed to look away from Tony’s eyes.

Finally, a waitress has to squeeze around them and Tony snaps back to awareness. He grimaces, a little. “Let’s sit down,” he blurts as he drops into his chair. Bucky settles into the opposite seat at the little white-topped table. There’s already an empty coffee cup by Tony’s elbow, and Tony wastes no time ordering two more. He fiddles with the dish, avoiding Bucky’s gaze for the moment.

Bucky _can’t stop looking at him_. A bomb could go off outside and Bucky would probably ignore it in favor of drinking in Tony’s face. The waitress brings their coffee. It isn’t until Tony’s curling Bucky’s fingers around the sugar bowl that Bucky comes back to himself. He snatches his hand away, then grabs at the sugar to give himself something to do. Tony sighs as Bucky stirs his coffee.

“Sorry,” Bucky whispers. Drinking coffee in a well-lit shop should not feel so perilous. He casts around for a topic. “Where are you living?”

Tony smiles, the ghost of the one he used to wear just for Bucky, but launches into a spirited rant on the shitty conditions of the third-floor apartment he’s renting. Bucky watches Tony’s expressive face and the way he waves his free hand. Bucky lets the words wash over him, aching with fondness, until he comes out with, “God, you’re exactly the same, Tony.”

Tony smiles again, and it’s a bit stronger. “I could show you the place, you know. How long are you here for?”

“I have to catch a train tomorrow,” Bucky admits.

“Oh, God, tomorrow?” Tony cries, voice going high before he clears his throat. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He asks, “You’ll come stay tonight, right?”

Bucky gives a quick nod. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s…” Tony trails off.

“Have you been in touch with your family?” Bucky asks.

“No. I told you I wouldn’t, but - ” Tony squares his shoulders. “ - Bruce came by the shop last week. I just brushed past him this time, but I might have to go back to them, if – if I can’t think of any way to - ”

“Tones, you don’t have to - ” 

“You read my letters. If I could have visited you, I would have been there. If I could have fought this without risking the freedom you gave up your own to win me – I would have.”

“I know.”

“And now you’re going off to the war.” Tony squeezed his hands into fists. “And I’m not,” he finished bitterly.

“What?” There’s a few beats of silence before Tony pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, tossing it towards Bucky. He unfolds it to discover a copy of an enlistment form, filled with Tony’s information and stamped with a glaring ‘4-F.’ 

“What?” Bucky asks again, numb.

“I have a heart murmur,” Tony admits. “I thought Howard might have had something to do with it, paying off the docs or what have you, but I went again with a false name and it came back the same. I mean, I know that my heart’s been broken for years, but I didn’t think it was really…”

Bucky carefully folds the form again and forces himself to breathe slowly. He hadn’t even considered that Tony would enlist and the short-lived panic he felt when he saw the paperwork has his blood up.

“I can’t go with you because my heart isn’t strong enough,” Tony says, dejected. “Isn’t that poetic?”

“I’m glad,” Bucky says.

“What?”

“Tony, of course I’m glad! I don’t want you anywhere near this! You can’t imagine what the thought of you getting shot at does to me.”

“Can’t I?” Tony asks, voice cold and eyes hard.

 _Shit._ That was a terrible thing to say. “I’m sorry, Tony. I’m an ass.” Bucky takes a large sip of his coffee, as if keeping his mouth full will stop him putting his foot in instead.

“Bucky, look at me,” Tony orders. “Look at me, James.”

Bucky does, tears stinging at his eyes.

“I am going to come after you. I am going to protect you. Whether I do it in a foxhole in Europe or by crawling back to Howard so I can make sure the gun at your back is the very _very_ best, I will,” Tony vows. “You are going to come back to me when this is over.”

Tony reaches out and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky sways into the touch. He licks his lips and has to swallow a few times before he can speak. “Take me home, Tony.”

*******************

“California.”

Bucky startles from his contemplation of New York’s streets. He turns to look at Tony, seated beside him on the bus bench. “What?”

“After the war’s over. We should move out to California.”

Bucky glances around. The bus is very crowded, but no one seems to be paying them any mind. “What would we do in California?”

“Swim,” Tony declares. “I’ll drive us down the coast, somewhere isolated. It’ll be rocky and the water’s always cold, but there won’t be another soul for miles.”

Bucky can picture that all too easily. The water breaking on the beach, Tony looking windswept and chilled, laughing. He’ll laugh with his whole face again, helpless chuckles because of something Bucky will say. Bucky smiles. “Yeah, I think that’s just about right.”

*******************

It isn’t enough time. Tony can’t stop thinking it. Good _God_ , it isn’t enough time at all. He slips twice on the way up the dingy stairs to his apartment, legs barely able to support himself. Bucky steadies him with a hand on his waist and a slight smile. That smile cuts Tony like a knife, for all that it’s gentle. 

It’s been so long.

Tony lets Bucky into the small apartment. They both check each of the locks, before Tony takes Bucky’s hand to draw him further into the room. Tony should offer Bucky something to eat, right? He could probably manage a scramble or something. He turns to look towards the kitchen, thinking about the state of his pantry, but Bucky’s fingers on his chin stop him. Bucky gently tips Tony’s head back to place a soft kiss against his mouth. Tony sways a bit on his feet and realizes that he’s crying. 

Bucky tucks Tony’s face into his neck, gently runs his fingers through his short hair. Tony throws his arms around Bucky, clings as they cry together. When he finally catches his breath again and dries his eyes on Bucky’s shirt, Tony feels so wrung out that a light breeze could tip him right over. They stumble to Tony’s bed, shedding clothes along the way. He slips under the covers, tugging Bucky in with him and then Tony is pressed against Bucky’s chest, safe in his arms for the first time in years. His breath shudders out of him again. He lets the heat of Bucky’s body thaw him, melts into the man he still loves more than anything.

*******************

Bucky wakes up early. The room is lighter, but still grey-shrouded in the pre-dawn. Tony is clinging to him. Bucky looks his fill, smells his hair, listens to the soft wheeze that isn’t quite a snore. Tony looks as exhausted as Bucky feels, bruised eyes and brow furrowed, even fast asleep. Bucky lets the seconds slip by, as many as he needs to burn the image into his brain. This morning’s memories will have to last him a good while.

He kisses Tony awake. 

*******************

For once, it’s quiet in the tent. This may be the first time that Bucky has managed a moment alone in months; he’s nearly always with his squad, and the base camp is always a hive of activity around them. He leans against the wash basin and sighs with relief. Bucky closes his eyes and splashes chilly water onto his face. It runs down his cheeks and back into the basin in front of him. He exhales, hard, and meets his reflection in the small, dirty mirror leaning precariously against the wall of the tent. His face is still streaked with grime, despite his efforts. He holds his own gaze and whispers, “One less day, Bucky.” It’s been his mantra ever since he’d been sent to jail. Everything has a limit. This too shall pass. One less day.

At least it had been a good day. Hell, it was probably the best day he’d had since the last time he’d fallen asleep with Tony in arms. He sees a smile ghost its way onto his reflection’s face. He bends his head back to his task; dirt and grease still cling to his hands and the soap from his ration box is nearly gone.

Other members of his unit burst into the long tent just as Bucky has given up the job and is wiping his hands dry on his pants. “Move it, Barnes.” Evans shoves his way past Bucky to dunk a filthy hand into the washbasin, before pulling it up and squeezing at a gash on his palm. It’s bleeding and Bucky reminds himself not to use that basin again tonight. Evans puts it back in the water with a hiss.

“You need a doctor? We gonna have to amputate, there?” Bucky teases. Evans flicks some of the water at Bucky’s face.

“Well, some of us had to move ammo crates today, you know. Some of us had to move ammo crates all day while other lazy, good-for-nothing privates laid around on their backs!” Evans gives back, and most of the assembled men laugh on their way to their bunks. Bucky rolls his eyes and heads to his own bed, carefully not rising to that bait. He’d been laying under a jeep, making engine repairs and they all knew it. Not much to do while hauling crates besides run your mouth, and enough of the fellas saw the conversation Bucky had had their Russian visitors about their engine malfunction. Likely the whole damn camp knew about it. Especially when their Lieutenant assigned Bucky to help. Probably he was just supposed to act as a conveniently available translator, but he took the opportunity to get his hands dirty again without a moment’s hesitation.

“Really, though,” Dugan says, propping himself up on his bunk, “how come you’re here, Barnes?”

“Kill some Nazis. Whaddya think?”

Dugan shakes his head. “No, I mean – you. You talk Russian and fix engines and you’re a crack shot and everything, and you’re a Private. How’s that happen?”

Bucky feels his throat tighten up and is tempted to lie, but sighs and confesses, “Not eligible for officer training when you join right out of prison.” He’s carefully not looking at any of his bunkmates now. Dugan and Evans make almost identical scoffing noises. “No, it’s true. They gave me a choice between continuing to serve my sentence or serve my country. Wasn’t hard to pick this instead of that.”

Bucky turns over, pointedly, to face the canvas wall. He listens as the others settle in to sleep, and then sneaks his hand up to press his nose against his fingers. Despite the wash, they still smell like fresh oil and engine grease. They smell like _Tony_ and Bucky starts to drift off, feeling somehow closer to him than he was yesterday.

 _One less day_.

*******************

_Dear Tony,_

_I hope that this letter finds you well, and in a sufficiently forgiving mood to read it without tearing it apart on sight. I got your address from a friend at the paper. I’m in New York as well now, painting posters for the Office of War Information. It’s steady work, and I’m trying to do my part for the war effort, though I wish I could do more._

_I would very much like to come and talk to you. I am beginning to fully grasp what I did that summer, and what it meant for you and Bucky. The regret eats at me every day. I know you haven’t even spoken to Bruce, but I beg you to reconsider seeing one or both of us. I miss you, my brother._

_Deep Regards,  
Steve_

*******************

Tony’s boots clank down the grated metal walkway as he makes his way to the door of the shop. Peter Quill slaps him good-naturedly on the back and says, “Tony, you got a visitor, he’s out front lookin’ all buttoned-up.”

Tony’s heart lurches, thoughts of Howard jumping to the front of his mind. He manages to swallow after a few tries and asks, “How old did he look, Pete?”

“’Bout your age.”

Tony’s breath leaks out of him. It’s probably Bruce. Tony doesn’t know anyone in the city apart from his fellas at the garage, and none of them could be described as buttoned-up, even if it was their own mother’s funeral. Tony should have realized that Bruce wouldn’t be satisfied with the cold shoulder he’d been given until he tried at least twice. Tony feels a little sick with the mixture of loneliness, longing and anger he still feels at the thought of any of his family, but he swallows it down again and thanks Peter. Time to face the music. He’d told Bucky he would, after all. 

It is Bruce, wearing a very nice coat and hat, but the effect is ruined by the weary slump of his shoulders and the messy flop of his curls. He manages a small smile for Tony when they catch sight of each other. Tony pushes away the fresh welling of hurt he feels and puts his hand out for his brother to shake. Bruce reaches for him immediately.

“Tony. I - ” Bruce takes a deep breath and seems to lose his thread. He stares at his shoes for nearly a minute.

The street is noisy with traffic and a toddler is crying a block away, but the silence from his brother seems to dull everything. Tony’s mind spins around. _What, Bruce? You’re sorry? You want me to come back to the family business? You have decided to become a dentist? What?!_ Tony is just about to wash his hands of this and walk away when Bruce manages, “I can help. Let me help.”

He can’t fathom what Bruce is up to, but his brother is smart, he knows Tony well, and gossip about the Starks is still a favored pastime in certain circles. It’s not unlikely that Bruce is telling the truth. After a small internal debate, Tony nods. 

Trusting Bruce is still so easy.

Bruce drives them out to an air strip and parks outside a small hangar. There’s another vehicle already parked beside it, with a weather-beaten man perched against the driver’s side door. His pose is casual, but he’s obviously military. Sharp brown eyes track their progress as Bruce and Tony exit the car. Bruce holds out a hand to shake as they draw even with the man.

“Colonel Phillips, it’s very good to see you again.”

“Thank you, Dr. Stark. I take it this is your brother?”

“Tony Stark,” Tony speaks up, holding his hand out himself. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I assure you, it’s all mine,” the colonel replies, “and right now it’s my pleasure to watch Bruce try to play Santa Claus.” He waves at the hangar.

“Bruce?” Tony turns to his brother.

There’s a pronounced pink to Bruce’s cheeks as he mumbles something about a contract and throws open the hanger door. Tony ducks inside to see a breathtaking sliver Beechcraft Model 18. “Oooh, hello, pretty thing.” He can’t hold himself back from petting her, fingers restrained to a light brush that won’t leave smudges on the polished side.

Bruce clears his throat and Tony looks over to see that the Colonel has trailed in and is standing next to his brother. “We have an employee agreement drawn up. You will be salaried as a Stark Industries special envoy to the military, attached to a special unit run by Colonel Phillips.”

“Hmm, there’s the catch,” Tony can’t help but reply.

“A job offer is the catch?” Phillips asks. “Most men would jump at the chance without even considering the addition of the aircraft.”

“Well,” Tony claps his hands together and then spreads them out in a nonchalant shrug, “I’m not most men.”

“That’s certainly the rumor.”

“I don’t appreciate hand-outs,” Tony tries.

“Oh, believe me, you will work very hard for everything you get from here on out. If all goes well, until the end of the war.”

Bruce clears his throat again and gestures at Phillips. “Tony, Colonel Phillips has an interesting need for individuals who can operate outside the traditional military structure. I think you could be a really good fit for his program and we are willing to bankroll your place there.”

“We’re going to be running smaller, leaner, faster. The right team can make the difference. I can get the intel while the Army is still filling out the paperwork.”

“What do you need me for?”

“I need individuals who can perform a variety of roles. You won’t have the weight of the army around your neck, but you won’t have its deep pockets or roster open to you either. I’m given to understand that you are a pilot of no mean skill, a mechanic with years of experience, and a man with family connections that can provide some measure of cover for the actions you will undertake as part of this venture.”

“What sort of actions did you envision?”

“Ones that will help us win this war. Faster than if you just hide behind a bum heart and tinker away here. Faster even than if you’d gotten your way and shipped out to the front months ago.”

They know about Tony’s attempted enlistment after all. He supposes it was too much to ask that all his secrets remain his. Still, this is exactly what he’s been waiting for. He can do this; whatever Phillips actually needs, Tony will make it happen. Get this damn war over with so he can get back to his life. So he can bring Bucky home.

*******************

_Dear Bucky,_

_I’m two minutes away from our departure, barely time to share the news. Bruce and I have worked out an arrangement where I will operate as a special Stark Industries envoy to the military. What that means remains to be seen, but what it comes down to is: I’m almost there. I’m on my way, Buckster. This war won’t know what hit it._

_Your Tony_

*******************

Tony’s feet feel too heavy in these standard-issue boots as he trails along behind Colonel Phillips. The overcast London sky presses down against the windows as they walk down a long corridor. It’s appropriately oppressive for the day when Tony will be meeting “The Unit.”

Ugh. Every time the team gets brought up it’s “The Unit.” Tony’s more than a little convinced that he’s about to meet a bunch of driven, aggressive assholes who will balk at being flown around by a civvy and proceed to ignore him for the duration of the war.

Abruptly, they reach the end of the never-ending hallway. Tony squares his shoulders and follows Colonel Phillips through a door into a little lounge area. There are maps tacked up on every available wall space, even taped over portions of the windows. A pretty brunette is moving little pins from one part of a map to another while a black man looms silently beside her. They both turn when Tony and Colonel Phillips make their entrance.

Phillips waves vaguely at Tony, “Folks, I’d like you to meet Tony Stark, as promised.” The woman waves at him, but she still has pins held between her lips, so she doesn’t reply. The man turns to loom vaguely in their direction instead of at the map. Tony’s briefly startled when a blond head pops up over the back of the couch at the other end of the room with a loud, “Howdy, mister.” The man gives a sloppy salute and lays back down, seeming to drop right back to sleep again.

Only one person bothers to actually approach and hold out his hand, which Tony takes gratefully. He’s another black man, thinner than the first, his dark eyes crinkling in a friendly smile. “James Rhodes. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Stark. We’re mostly familiar with your family business of course.” He nods towards the low coffee table in front of the now-snoring blond man, where Tony can see a disassembled Stark rifle.

Phillips waves at each of the assembled members. “Rhodes will be your co-pilot, you two should go get familiar with the new ride Stark’s family has provided after we get through this little pow wow. The disaster on the couch is Clint Barton, he’ll want you to call him Hawkeye, drummed out of special forces when he lost most of his hearing, but he’s a very steady shot with a high level of close-quarters combat training. Tempting to call him the muscle, but he’s got a sharp eye and more besides, so listen when he bothers to speak seriously. Peggy Carter, ATS - ”

“ATS?” Tony interrupts.

“Auxiliary Territorial Service,” a warm British voice answers. Peggy had managed to remove the pins from her bright red painted lips and she gives Tony a pretty smile when he shakes her hand as well.

“ - your intelligence specialist.” Phillips continues. “Tempting to call her the brains, but you really don’t want to be on the receiving end of her right hook.”

Peggy’s smile grows more pronounced.

“And, Nick Fury. He works for me.” The looming man actually nods, and Tony’s not going to ask for clarification twice, so he just nods back, a little dumbly.

“Stark will handle equipment repair as well as his share of the flying. Get to know each other, we’re out at 0800 tomorrow.”

“That’s it?” Tony blurts, before he can help himself. “We’re – it’s just us?” He can’t quite wrap his head around it. The way Phillips had talked up “The Unit,” Tony really thought he’d end up in the company of super-soldiers, not – 

“How did you not get laughed out of the army for this?” Tony wonders. “A unit made up of the sick, injured, blacks and a woman? We’re supposed to change the tide of the war? Most of the army won’t give us a second glance. It’s not - ” Tony grimaces, “ – proper. For, uh, discipline. Or something.”

He feels his face heat in embarrassment when he realizes that his mouth is running off where they can all hear him, but no one gets defensive or jumps in on him.

“That’s rather most of the point, Anthony,” Peggy says.

“I’ve found that problems Army command may have with individuals of this caliber are often a result of under-utilization. I don’t make that mistake,” Colonel Phillips drawls. “You will be fully utilized here. We are small, we are fast, we are skilled. You’d be surprised how much we can do here on the fringes of proper discipline.”

*******************

He’s right. The team is startlingly effective.

Tony flies. Thousands of miles, dodging enemy fire, with Rhodes, who has become Rhodey, there at his side. Tony carries his team, and they carry him. It isn’t long before he trusts them with more than his own life. He tells them about Bucky one night, sitting around a campfire, eating breakfast rations for dinner. Telling them makes Tony feel lighter than that moment at the top of a climb when his wings start to stall out. But he trusts his plane and his team and after that scary moment, he’s caught, he’s safe.

Tony builds. He’s already upgraded their plane, eeking out a little more speed and a lot more range from the machine. He goes after their guns, smoothing out the firing mechanisms, improving the sighting. Hawkeye bitches and moans the whole time Tony has his rifle, but the first time he fires it after Tony’s been at it, he wordlessly hands over his entire cigarette ration as thanks. Tony works out padding for their armor, light enough to move in, but still offering better protection. It saves Rhodey’s life once, and Tony’s not ashamed to admit that he sobs in relief on Rhodey’s shoulder that night. 

Tony thinks. He soaks up the strategy sessions like a sponge. He learns to follow Colonel Phillip’s acronym-laden speeches. He knows what that gleam in Nick Fury’s eyes leads to (usually explosions). He discovers when to push and when the set of Peggy Carter’s jaw means that their course is already laid in and arguing will get him nowhere.

Tony fights. He learns to shoot a gun. He sets explosive traps to rid his team of pesky tails. He knows, with a familiarity bordering on the instinctual, what each of his bombs is capable of.

They smuggle vital intelligence to command. Their little team of outcasts is just a small cog, but it turns. It _works_ , and somewhere a battalion moves out two hours earlier, catching the Germans unprepared. 

Elsewhere, a train carrying a weapons cache is derailed.

An operative got too deep, and the unit rescues her before she could be killed. Well, that one was mostly Peggy and Hawkeye, but Tony did get to drive the getaway car like a bat out of hell.

They manage to get into a chateau where several ranking German officers were holed up in time to assist a local resistance group in overthrowing the interlopers. And if the fact that it’s his specially modified bombs that take down the makeshift bunker makes his chest fill up with pride, that’s his own concern.

And if some of the time Tony’s up late tinkering not because he caught a new idea that has to be tested out _right now_ , but because his ears are echoing with screaming, that’s also his own concern. Really, he doesn’t need Rhodey to come glower at him.

“You know that you’re going to end up under here with me, lemon cake. You do at least forty-two percent of the time,” Tony hollers from where he’s kneeling under the Twin Beech. He sniffs and continues, “Grab the smaller wrench if you do, yeah?”

Rhodey’s face shows up in his field of vision, looking pinched and worried and not at all like they are about to spend several enjoyable hours in an engine together. “You need to sleep, Tones. We’re making the final push into Italy tomorrow.”

Tony ignores his friend in favor of staring at the piston casing in front of him for several long minutes.

“C’mon, Tony. Your soldier’s still in the 107th, right?”

A noise escapes Tony, something strangled and not at all like a laugh, though that’s what it started as. Rhodey’s eyes grow round, “Uh, Tony? He’s still…he’s not – "

“He’s still in the 107th, Rhodey bear.” Tony sighs. “What if he – I – I am so fucked up, Rhodey. I can’t – What happened to Fury…” Tony’s mind is already helpfully replaying the moment his friend was stabbed, the blood on his face brighter than Dorothy’s slippers, his screams louder than any Tony’s ever heard. Tony had been the one to shoot the attacker and drag Nick back to the plane. He could still feel the weight of the man in his hands. Sometimes, lately, he tries to think of holding Bucky instead, but it always ends with Nick Fury’s blood on his hands, staring into his mangled eye…

“What happened to Nick wasn’t your fault,” Rhodey says with a huff. He’s had to say it to Tony often over the last few weeks.

“Bucky’s infantry, Rhodes. He’s seen worse. Done…” Tony clears his throat. “What if – " He trails off again, unable to voice the gnawing fear that either one of them could be too changed by this war to recognize each other. What if Bucky’s easy affection or his steady hands are as altered by this chaos as Tony feels he himself has been? How can he keep Bucky in his heart when it sometimes feels like he doesn’t have one anymore?

He trails off as he meets Rhodey’s eyes. His friend only reaches out to haul Tony to his feet and back to the rented room they are sharing with Clint and Nick. They’re quiet as they get into bed, Rhodey lying with his back pressed to Tony’s, solid and warm. Tony focuses on Rhodey’s breathing, staring at the wall as night slowly gives way to morning.

*******************

Tony should have taken Rhodey up on his offer to handle the post-flight checks himself. Damn his inability to delegate. He bites his lip again, forcing himself to slow down and go carefully down the list. Getting to lay eyes on Bucky after months without a glimpse may feel like a life-or-death concern, but if he misses something on the checklist, it could very well kill him or his teammates. Most of the unit have gone ahead of him to receive their bunk assignment or debrief with command. He’ll meet up with them in the mess as soon as he gets through this process. 

The sun’s nearly set by the time Tony wraps up his task, and instead of trying to find his bunk or deal with his personal gear, he leaves everything on the plane and hurries towards the mess. Army food being what it is, rushing to get there is something of a novel experience for Tony. He grins as he follows the loudest sounds of conversation and the accumulated clinking of silverware on metal trays.

He doesn’t spot Bucky right away. Tony reminds himself that he’s not the one codenamed Hawkeye and just because Bucky isn’t the first one he lays eyes on doesn’t mean he won’t find him at all. That’s illogical. His hands are still shaking, a little, as he collects his own tray. Beans and tomatoes and something that might be ham from the warming trays. A small, soft loaf of bread and _coffee_ , thank God. Tony starts when he is gently nudged towards one corner of the tent; Nick Fury is apparently right beside him and steering them towards the rest of the unit. It’s unnerving that a man that imposing can be so quiet. Tony follows his direction, but he can’t help craning his neck around the whole way over to their destination, looking for Bucky.

“He’s not here at the moment, Tony,” Peggy tells him as soon as he’s settled onto the bench beside her. “He had KP until just a few minutes ago. Shouldn’t be long, he just had to scrub up.”

“How do you know the duty roster for this place already?” Tony huffs. She raises an eyebrow at him. Which is fair. Intelligence is her business after all. Nick nudges him again with his elbow. “Eat.”

Tony is trying, but army food doesn’t get better with repeated exposure. He cuts his probable-ham into strips and focuses on working his way through the meal until he feels a small, warm hand on his shoulder. Tony glances at Peggy, and she inclines her head toward the mess entrance before giving his shoulder a squeeze. He’s glad for the little act of comfort, because when he sees James Barnes striding into the room with his hair still wet from a shower, well. He got hit in the chest with a baseball bat that one time in France, and this feels a lot like that did.

Bucky’s eyes scan over the crowd until he meets Tony’s and drops them straight to the ground. He heads towards the serving line, but Tony can see the smile he’s fighting to keep off his face and the way that his hand comes up to tap on his chest. Right over his heart. Joy fizzles in his veins and Tony draws a relieved breath deep into his body. _Bucky’s okay! Bucky is here and he’s smiling._ Tony can’t keep the smile off his own face. He ducks his head down to hide it behind mouthfuls of awful beans.

The rest of the meal should drag on forever, but it turns out to be a bit fun. Bucky and his group have settled very conveniently in such a way that Tony just _happens_ to walk by them on his way to drop off his tray. He sees Bucky bite his lip as Tony passes behind his spot on the bench. Bucky just _happens_ to be stretching as Tony’s returning to drink the rest of his coffee with the unit, brushing his arm along Tony’s chest before giving a “startled” apology.

Tony finishes the coffee and is debating making another pass by Bucky when Peggy rolls her eyes and orders, “Stay here, Mr. Stark.” Nick slides him another roll, which Tony mostly tears to little pieces instead of eating, but it’s an excuse to stay in the mess a little longer. Rhodey teases him, gently, and Tony – Tony is so grateful to be sitting with his friends, able to see that Bucky is okay with his own eyes, that he gets a little choked up.

After a while, Peggy makes a little show of returning to collect the team, which provokes many of the soldiers into waving and blowing kisses to her when they all leave the mess a moment later. Bucky joins in, and no one seems to notice which pretty brunette his kisses are aimed at.

“You’re in luck, Tony. They’re going to a pub tonight. I’ll play the distraction for you,” Peggy reports as they trudge back to the sleeping quarters the unit has been assigned. Tony laughs. The 107th doesn’t know it yet, but they are in for a treat.

*******************

The walk to the bar is pleasant enough, and Tony tries to relax into one of their rare nights off, but he feels like his bones could vibrate right through his skin, he’s so strung with anticipation. Tony has Peggy on his arm, a warm presence beside him in the chilly Italian night, and she periodically squeezes his arm in reassurance. Clint walks beside them, casual conversation coming easily to the trio. Rhodey decided to take an early night and Nick was off who knows where, so it’s just the three of them making their way to the bar. It’s not hard to spot. The building is loud, spilling music and laughter out into the street along with the light that leaks out of the windows. 

They step through the door, greeted by the smell of beer and a crowd of people. Everything feels very close suddenly, and Tony takes Peggy’s coat almost out of self-preservation, falling back on his manners and giving himself a moment to collect his bearing. He has to bite back a grin when he hears the room fall silent in a slow wave. He hangs their coats on pegs by the door and turns back to get the full effect of Peggy Carter. She’s wearing the red dress that so perfectly hugs her curves, the folded V-shaped neckline directing attention where it will be most distracting. She’s taller than he’s used to, her bright red heels giving her the couple of inches she needs to best him. She rolls her eyes, ignoring the effect on the room full of soldiers through long practice. Tony’s going to owe her for this. Peggy doesn’t have an abundance of patience to deal with stupidity and odds are good that she’ll have to tonight. She takes his arm again and subtly directs him back to the corner of the room where she’s already managed to pick out Bucky.

Once they reach the worn table around which Bucky’s group is gathered, it’s easy as offering to buy the next round and dragging a few additional chairs up to make fast friends. Introductions are made, and the conversation naturally turns to their respective jobs. 

“You’re a pilot?” Bucky asks Tony. Tony is delighted at how straight a face Bucky’s keeping.

“Sure am.”

“Barnes is real keen on machines, especially engines,” Dugan announces, and Tony resolves to buy the man as many more rounds as he can handle for that perfect opening.

“Well, in that case, Sergeant Barnes, I insist you let me give you a tour. I’ve made some modifications you’re not going to see on any other model.”

“Of course you have.” Bucky coughs and quickly corrects, “Of course, I’d like that.” 

Eventually, Jones asks Peggy for a dance, and to Tony’s surprise, she accepts. Dugan issues a drinking challenge, and though Bucky and Tony continue to nurse their own beers, Clint joins him enthusiastically. It seems like forever, and also no time at all, before Tony sees his chance to slip away from the still-lively conversation. He stops at the bar to settle up, covering the table’s tab as well and shoots Bucky a raised eyebrow. Bucky gives a small nod.

Tony retrieves his coast and steps out in the chilly night air. He crosses the street to loiter in the entrance to an alley. Despite the chill, the smell from the alley is pervasively unpleasant, but it’s a good spot to keep an eye on the bar, so Tony resolves to ignore it. He lights a cigarette, pulling the warm smoke into his chest.

He’s not even halfway through it when Bucky strolls out of the door and walks right up to him. Tony shivers, and though it’s not entirely to do with the temperature, Bucky takes the opportunity to drop his scarf around Tony’s neck. Tony feels his knees go a little weak, because suddenly he’s surround by Bucky’s smell and Bucky’s warmth, staring into Bucky’s earnest, pleased face. It’s a little slice of heaven he never would have dared to hope for in the middle of this nightmare war.

“Hello,” Tony barely manages to croak out.

“Hello, Tony,” Bucky whispers. He reaches out and touches Tony’s arm, then directs him back towards the main road. Tony feels like he’s floating above the dirty paving stones. They walk in silence, for the most part, stealing glances and shooting smiles at each other, only occasionally breaking it with “I can’t believe you’re really here,” or “I’ve missed you so much.”

They get back to the camp. Tony does show Bucky the plane and gives him a rundown of the new features Tony has implemented. His language is impartial and technical enough, but Tony can’t stop the way his voice is suffused with warmth and affection. Bucky returns it in kind, smiling like it’s going to split his face. It’s a damn good thing no one else tried to join them on this little tour, because Tony can’t keep himself under wraps much longer.

He ushers Bucky into the plane. Bucky doesn’t take one of the pilot seats; he doesn’t even take a passenger bench. Instead, he stretches out on his back in the aisle, well below the windows, and tugs Tony down with him by the hand. Oh, smart man. Tony immediately curls into Bucky’s side, feeling months of worry slough off and emotion rise up in his throat to choke him. Oh God, he can’t believe that they are really here.

“How are you, darling?” Bucky asks, voice trembling.

“So, so much better than I was this morning,” Tony answers. He exhales, shakily, and then they’re kissing. Bucky’s craning his head around at first and it’s more than a little awkward, but then Tony pushes himself up higher and Bucky turns on his side and they slot together _perfectly_. Bucky tastes like beer and his lips are chapped, but it’s wonderful. It’s so wonderful. Bucky’s hands slide into Tony’s hair and he moans at the feel of them. Tony bites, gently, at Bucky’s lips. Bucky opens his mouth and Tony eases his tongue inside, feeling the warmth of him, the tickle of his breath on Tony’s cheek.

They kiss, quiet and slow, for a long time. Tony doesn’t push for more, scared to get into a position where they can’t break apart easily. Bucky seems to feel the same, humming happily into Tony’s mouth, but keeping his hands above Tony’s chest. Eventually, Tony has to pull back and catch his breath. He wipes tears from his eyes and notices Bucky doing the same.

“We’re out tomorrow,” Bucky whispers. “The whole regiment. What are we going to do?” 

“Win a war,” Tony replies, voice quiet to match. “And then…” He trails off.

“Our story can resume,” Bucky says, conviction in every inch of his bearing. Tony looks away from his earnest face. “Tony.”

“Can you be that man again, Bucky? The one who lived in secret?” Tony asks, voice thin.

“The man who slept at your side?” Bucky whispers. He turns Tony’s face back to him with gentle fingers until his lips are a hairsbreadth from Tony’s. “The man who had everything he ever wanted begging at his fingertips?” Bucky kisses him, a tiny, gentle thing. “What’s a little secrecy compared to a man’s soul, Tony?”

They don’t have much more time. He kisses Bucky again, keeps their bodies tucked tight together, holds on almost desperately. Tony can’t help but think of tonight as much a curse as a blessing. Like a man dying of thirst given a drop of water, it was nowhere near enough to sate his need for Bucky. He takes as many kisses as he can, until he hears a light tapping of Morse on the side of the plane. It’s someone on the team, telling him that the others have made it back from the bar. He has to let Bucky go back to the barracks before they arouse suspicion, he knows, but – 

Tearing himself away from Bucky feels like hollowing out his own chest. Handing his still-beating heart to the man might be easier than forcing a good-bye past his lips, he thinks wildly, but he tries, “I love you.” His throat closes up again, and he can’t actually say more than that.

Bucky gets up slowly and takes Tony’s hand to help him up as well. “I love you too, Tony Stark. I will see you when we get back, yeah?” He kisses Tony’s hand, lips feather light on the ridge of his knuckles.

Tony doesn’t remember if he says anything in reply. The next thing he remembers is being held in place, Clint’s arm around his shoulder, as they watch Peggy and Bucky head back into the main camp. He doesn’t blink, staring into the darkness until long after the two have gone.

*******************

The ground explodes nearby. Bucky can feel the force of it rattle the helmet on his head, and his next step is unstable. He goes down to one knee as the dirt lofted by the shell rains down on top of him. His ankle twinges when he presses back up to his feet. He squints against the bright light of a burning building off to his right. His night vision has gone to hell and everything beyond the fire is a smoky, murky unknown. 

“C’mon!” There’s a body pushing past him and he realizes that it’s Dum Dum. Bucky forces himself to keep moving, following his bulky friend. His hands are gripping his rifle to the point of pain. After just a few more feet they stumble into a sizable foxhole. Bucky throws himself onto his back, checking the status of the other occupants. Dum Dum already has his rifle up and is counting the time between mortar firings. A few seconds later, Gabe stumbles into the pit, gasping for breath.

“How bad?” Bucky shouts at Dum Dum.

He shakes his head, turning slightly to shout back, “Bad! At least five within range of this slope and Jerry outnumbers us, probably two to one.”

 _Fuck_. Bucky turns to Gabe. “We need cover. Get someone on the radio. B company should be closest.”

“That’s not gonna work!” Gabe shouts back to him, holding up the smoking remains of his radio.

“Here they come!” Dum Dum yells. The half dozen men who have made it to their foxhole all bring up their rifles, bracing them on the dirt rise. Bucky shoves his eye to his scope, watching the inexorable progress of the Germans as they approach. His finger squeezes on the trigger. The retorts of the rifles around him are loud, rattling down his skull to his teeth. He tries not to clench against the recoil, already lining up the next shot as his target folds to his knees in the distance. They keep coming. Too many.

Bucky shoves the fear aside, nothing to be done about it now. He’s got his gun up and he’s shooting. His targets fall, tumbling down the slope. The battle rhythm settles on Bucky, he aims, shoots, moves minutely to center the next target. They’re dropping out there, and there’s no time for hope or fear or the way that his ankle is still throbbing. There’s only the next shot.

Until, suddenly, there’s the tank. Holy shit, that’s the biggest tank Bucky has ever seen. It crests the hill line and barrels towards their holdout. German soldiers dive out of its way, the metal behemoth indifferent to the fragile creatures, even those on its own side.

Another foxhole fifty feet to their right explodes. Bucky is thrown into the dirt, stunned. He stares at the smoking crater where their men used to be. The enormous gun barrel swivels towards them, and pauses. Everything pauses, the men, the Germans, and the tank, obviously waiting for something.

Bucky stares down the barrel of the tank, and he already knows. They’re waiting for him. He’s only just made Sergeant, but that still ranks him here, in this little pit. Bile surges in his throat and he climbs to his feet. The world has fragmented, everything disjointed and strange and even peaceful.

“Bucky?”

They want to take them. This thing could have mown them all down by now, but they are waiting. The quiet settles in his heart. Is it even still beating? He is going to die, right here, and never see Tony again. 

Unless.

Bucky’s hand spasms on his gun, but he forces himself to let go, puts his arms up. He surrenders.

*******************

There is a memo at his desk when Steve gets to work on Thursday. He sighs in relief and scoops up the folded page before dumping his bag out on the surface. His sketchbook and pencil case slide out with a thump. He’s got the motion perfected now; he almost never drops his things anymore. He sinks onto his stool, hooking his feet into the metal foot rest and begins unpacking and organizing his materials before opening his new assignment.

He’s stalling, a little. Two weeks ago, he turned in a general moral poster which was soundly rejected by his boss. Steve had painted a lonely soldier looking up at the night sky from a field in Europe, finding peace in a constellation that looked like the American flag. He carefully didn’t think about the fact that the slightly melancholy soldier looked a lot like Bucky Barnes.

He’d been berated about keeping morale up for almost forty minutes. And then assigned a VD advisory poster, which he had hated. He’d turned it in yesterday, but he wasn’t sure if it would be considered sufficient penance. Sighing, he unfolds the paper.

_Masculine strength. Triumph over evil. American muscle, patriotism and national confidence._

Steve realizes he is holding his breath and makes himself exhale slowly. There’s a curious sensation building in his chest. It feels light, like relief, and piercing, like anticipation. This is his chance! He quickly thumbs through the sketchbook, looking for his favorite of the Captain America pieces he has been working on during the off-hours. He begins framing out his character, each stroke of his pencil is like a piece of himself slotting into place.

A pen collides with his forehead.

Steve blinks, dazed, until his eyes manage to focus on the paint-splattered fingers holding the pen. He squints at her. She’s wearing her usual black A-line dress, with her legs painted to match. The monotone only emphasizes the flaming red of her hair. She’s also wearing her usual scowl. “Natasha? Why?” 

In answer, she waggles the cup of coffee in her other hand before shoving it at his face. “It’s after seven,” she sniffs, and whaps him on the head again.

“ _Ow._ Yes, I know, I’m not on the clock until quarter to eight.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, the pretty green flashing in annoyance. “It’s after seven _in the evening_ , Steve.”

Steve blinks at her dumbly for another second before looking down at his desk. The surface is covered in loose paper, pencil shavings and paint cups. Directly below him is a poster. It’s without slogans right now, that will happen in the subcommittee for national morale after he turns it in, but his figures are clean and sharp. The blue of Captain America’s uniform is perfect and vibrant and the paint is still a little wet. He’s just thrown a powerful punch at Hitler, and the villain is in the process of careening backwards from the blow.

It’s fantastic.

Natasha follows his gaze and quickly pulls the coffee back, turning to put it on a side table. Steve lets out a breath in relief once it’s safely away from his poster. She comes around to bend over his shoulder, her fingernails digging in slightly where she’s grabbed on to his arm. “Steve. This is amazing.”

His throat feels tight with emotion and he can’t deny the way that pride fills up his chest at the praise. “Cap.” He clears his throat. “I’ve decided to call him Captain America. I’ve been working on him at home for a while now. Do you think they’ll approve it?” He looks up at her hopefully.

She’s already got her nose in his sketchbook. He feels the tiniest fluttering of panic at the thought of someone else holding it, but he trusts Natasha. She’s never really given him a choice, he thinks ruefully, but she also hasn’t ever given him reason not to. “How many of these do you have?” she asks.

“I think Cap’s punched out Hitler over two hundred times,” Steve laughs.

“You’re going to need them,” she replies cryptically. 

*******************

Natasha is right, as usual. They come back and ask for a collectable trading card line. Cap turns out to be a huge funding source, and they are making noises about a film series. Steve is propelled from his little painter’s desk to his own office with a writing staff so fast he’s left reeling. 

*******************

The explosion from the factory floor shakes dust from the walls and resonates so deeply in his chest that Bucky’s breaths _ache_. He has half a moment to pray for those prisoners on the floor shift, they’ve most likely died in that effective bit of sabotage.

The thought is knocked from his head as the guard they’ve just run into brings his baton down in a glancing blow to his face. The subsequent blow to the ribs doesn’t help matters. Bucky screams as the German guard brings the baton down on his side again. Most of the guards have run off to the main floor after the explosion ripped through the complex, but it seems that Fritz here is taking the opportunity to indulge in some additional brutality. The guard raises the baton again, but Gabe’s finally up and barreling into his side, taking them both to the ground. Dum Dum finally wrestles the weapon away from him, shouting, “My stick now, you utter fucker.” He manages to knock the guard out with a couple sharp blows to his face.

Bucky’s starting to worry that he’s cracked a rib, but he can’t exactly stop to check, so he pushes to his feet, puts one foot in front of the next and follows the stream of escaping prisoners up through the hallways towards the big bay doors where the delivery trucks are parked. He stumbles out of the large double metal doors. The first breath of open air sticks in his throat, causing pain to spasm through his chest as his lungs lose their rhythm. Most of the prisoners are already swarming the courtyard, trying to rush the standing guards. The sharp report of gunfire echoes against the high walls of the factory. 

His head is swimming. He’s not in any kind of shape to be fighting, but when a soldier ahead of him screams “Keep moving! Grab those grenades!” he manages to comply. The stick feels solid in his hands, the sensation is much more real than most of this night has been. God bless adrenaline. His fingers still fumble the metal cap, but he gets it off and tugs the ignition cord. He manages to lob the device far enough to the side that the explosion hits several guards coming up between the rows of trucks. The entire group is knocked back, clearing a path for the prisoners away from the deathtrap of the exposed courtyard. Bucky lets out a crow of victory. He quickly doubles over coughing, but it was worth it.

He straightens up and manages to catch sight of his current favorite ginger, somehow still in possession of his ridiculous bowler hat. Bucky forces his legs to keep moving and soon he has caught up with Dum Dum, who is scaling the side of a tank. Bucky slumps against the metal wall, waiting for the big man to clear the top. Gabe slams into the tank’s side next to him, along with a Brit that Bucky doesn’t recognize. They have both managed to arm themselves. Gabe nudges him with the butt of his rifle and Bucky starts the grueling process of climbing into the tank. He’s nearly there when his world explodes in a bright burst of pain.

He falls, and it’s sheer dumb luck that he’s pitching forward, into the tank. He can hear Gabe shouting behind him. He curls up on the floor in the tiny space, partially to let the other men climb in after him, but mostly instinctually, his body defensive around his pain.

He hears Gabe babbling about French girls, but the sound is coming from far away. He registers vibrations that transmit all along his body where it is pressed into the floor of the tank. They got it started then. It’s the last thought he has before he passes out.

He wakes up to the feeling of hands on his shoulder, pressing his back down hard into the corrugated metal of the tank floor. The rumbling of the tank continues under his skull, and it translates as wave after wave of pain, running down to meet the fire in his shoulder. He can hear a hoarse, repeated sound that sets his nerves on edge. The raw, pained noises make him uncomfortable, but even after he realizes that he’s hearing his own voice, he can’t manage to stifle them.

“Hey, there, Bucky,” Dum Dum soothes, “You hold on. We’re out, we’re gonna get you safe now. You just hold on for the ride now.”

“Hurts,” Bucky rasps. “T-t-” He can’t get another word out, just a broken moan. He feels his body twitching under Dum Dum’s hands, but the other man keeps pressure on his shoulder regardless. He welcomes the blackness when it encloses him again.

It’s hot when he wakes up next. There’s a warm blanket spread out over his lower body, the heavy weight of it almost unbearable. He’s laid out on some kind of cot, the sweet scent of wood smoke heavy in the small space of what appears to be a single room cabin. Bucky doesn’t do much more than a cursory glance around though, because his mother is sat at the side of his bed.

He squints at her. His mother doesn’t have red hair, but apart from being suddenly ginger, she looks the same as when he last saw her years ago. She shushes him, reaching out with a cool cloth to wipe sweat off his forehead. 

“It’s so hot in here,” Bucky says.

“Found some bouillon, how ‘bout that, eh, Buck?” she replies. 

Bucky obediently swallows as the salty liquid is spooned into his mouth. He blinks harder and his mother is gone. It’s Dum Dum sitting there, holding a tin cup. Bucky coughs, sending a line of agony down his side, before he manages to whisper, “Where?”

“Somewhere in Austria. Cabin was conveniently unoccupied. Gabe’s still out in the tank, trying to suss out that radio and whether we can risk getting on it. Monty’s keeping eyes on the road,” Dum Dum finishes his report and holds the cup up again. Bucky nods, his throat is scraped raw with thirst. He manages a few more sips before his friend sits back and fixes Bucky with a serious look. “I oughta get bandages on that arm, Bucky.”

At the words, Bucky instinctually looks down at his left side. He feels the broth roll in his stomach when he sees the bloody mess that is his arm. The limb is wrapped in what might be strips of uniform, but it’s difficult to tell when the fabric is so blackened with blood. His fingers are curled stiff, and he can’t – oh God, he can’t move them. Bucky slams his eyes closed and nods at Dum Dum. Whatever he’s going to do can’t make it worse now.

He manages to stay conscious through Dum Dum removing the makeshift bandages, but he can’t help the screaming. It’s a mercy for them both when Bucky passes out just as Dum Dum starts cleaning the wounds with a bit of warm, wet towel.

Time stretches strangely after that. Bucky is hot, so hot, all the time, except for when he’s so cold he thinks he’s actually going to freeze. During his more lucid moments, he realizes that he is in bad shape, that the others can’t do much more for him except pray they all get rescued quickly. Mostly, when he wakes, he sees his mother, or Tony in his suit with the green vest.

“Take your boots off, Bucky, dear,” Winifred Barnes scolds.

“We can go to dinner,” Tony promises, “I’ll buy you oysters and champagne. We can go to the beach and dance in the sand.”

“Wash your feet,” his mother says, “before you track it all over the kitchen.”

“Come back to me, my darling,” Tony whispers in his ear. Water runs down the side of his face. He’s dunked himself in the fountain again. That’s smart, when it’s so hot here. His Tony is always so smart. Bucky loves him.

“Bucky.”

Bucky manages to turn towards Tony and crack his eyes open. Tony’s not in his suit anymore, wrapped up in a soft leather jacket instead. The flap-eared cap and large goggles make him look like an army pilot. Bucky squints. “You’re gonna be too hot in that, Tony. Your mother won’t like it.”

Tony’s eyes widen, and Bucky notices the tear tracks streaking through the dirt on his face. Tony’s filthy and scratched up. “Dirty,” Bucky whispers.

“Yeah, I had to do a bit of hiking to find some poor idiots got themselves lost in fucking Austria,” Tony says. He turns around and talks to someone Bucky can’t see clearly from his cot. “Three miles to the plane. It’s not gonna be fun, but we don’t have a lot of choice.”

There’s sounds of shuffling, and Tony raises his voice a few times, but Bucky can’t keep himself from floating a little. Did they make it to the beach?

“James,” Tony says, firmly. Bucky looks at him again. “We’re going to move you onto a stretcher, okay? It’s not going to feel all that great, but we’re getting you out of here, okay?”

“I want to stay, Tony. I can still swim, promise.”

Tony smiles for him then, but his eyes are sad. He’s crying because he doesn’t want to leave the beach either. They must have a dinner to get to. There are hands on him now, under his back and legs, and he sways a little in the water. Tony runs his hand through Bucky’s hair. Bucky decides to go to sleep. That might be nice. Tony’s here, but he won’t mind. Bucky hears Tony counting. Tony is so smart.

He feels the pain again, rocketing out of his left side, but he’s too tired to do much more than whimper before everything fades away.

*******************

Tony flies like a man possessed. He’s numbly grateful that Colonel Phillips is eager enough himself to find out what happened in the aftermath of the battle at Azzano to send the team out, because the need to _find Bucky_ is writhing under his skin, hot and angry and inexorable. He’s not sure what he would have done if the team had moved on instead – and the thought that they may have to do so soon haunts Tony’s sleepless nights. 

Finding the weapons factory and identifying the prisoner transport convoys still streaming into the building is enough to guarantee them a little more time in Italy. Tony and Rhodey fly out to Austria every day; the team gathers as much information on the facility as they can. It all goes to Phillips, who briefs the General daily.

Command deliberates. Azzano was a blow to their forces in the region, and the talk of leaving the prisoners to their fates, in order to spare further allied losses, grows steadily louder.

Tony can’t do a damned thing to help but to keep flying the mission, so he does. Until the day that they arrive over the factory to find a smoking hole where the facility should be. It looks small from so high, the thick smoke rising from the ruined buildings is almost soft from here, despite how Tony knows it must be roiling down below. Hawkeye doesn’t mark any movement down below from where he sits at the shielded viewing window Tony installed. Tony dares to take them closer until even he can tell that the factory has been evacuated. The only vehicles left are burned-out shells, and there aren’t many of them to be seen.

It’s Hawkeye who notices the extra set of tank treads, moving away from the fire in the opposite direction of most of the vehicle tracks. He’s sketching furiously, checking the compass bearing and adding notation to his paper. Tony can’t see the actual tracks himself, but as they take shape on the notebook Clint brings on every mission, he can tell what he’s looking at.

The discovery is a thin sip of air to a drowning man. Tony feels his chest seize up and the monster under his skin writhes with the agony of hope. Hawkeye notes the direction carefully, but they’re low on fuel after an extended reconnaissance and Tony has to turn them back. 

Hawkeye makes his report first while Tony sees to the post-flight checks. When Tony finally makes his way to Phillips’ tent, Clint is just leaving, jaw clenched tight and eyes burning in anger. Tony stumbles when Clint just shakes his head, but gets his feet underneath himself. Tony blows into the tent, already babbling, “Colonel Phillips, please, sir. We could go after the missing tank. You know he’ll be able to find it again. Please, I can bring some of our boys back home.” 

“Request denied.” Phillips’ voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up from the paperwork on his desk.

“But, sir, I would just need a few days for the search. I can get us out again, I know I can.”

“Army command has already determined that there will be no rescue mounted. We’d lose more men than we’d save.”

Tony wants to scream, but he manages to calmly point out, “That was for an assault on the facility. Extraction of a small number of targets is exactly what the unit is made for, sir, _please_.”

Colonel Phillips clenches his hands and finally looks at Tony. “You are not authorized to take on any additional search mission. Do you understand?”

“But - ”

“Do we need to have a conversation that you won’t enjoy, Stark?”

Tony swallows back an acidic reply, nearly biting through his tongue with the effort before he manages to force out “No, sir. I understand.”

“Well, go understand it somewhere else, Mr. Stark.”

“Yes, sir.”

His chest is hot, a molten ball of rage taking up all the space where his lungs and heart should be. Tony moves through the camp to the airfield, near-blind with tears that he just manages to keep in check. He stalks past the crews and the planes until he gets to the back lot, where the planes and trucks damaged beyond repair wait to be cannibalized for parts for more salvageable vehicles. Grabbing up a heavy wrench, he finally gives vent to his frustration. The noise that he makes as he swings the wrench into a truck door is a barely-human howl. Choked, garbled curses spill from his lips as he swings the wrench over and over.

It isn’t long before his hands are shaking too hard to hold his weapon and Tony lets it fall with a dull thud. He curls himself under the husk of a P-51 and presses his overheated face into the landing gear. The metal is cool and he lets himself cry until the tears fade into a grey, hazy numbness.

Tony doesn’t know how long he sits under the plane, but eventually the smell of coffee penetrates the protective fog of his mind. He pulls back from his hunched ball to find Peggy crouched in front of him, one hand on the ground to support her in the awkward position and the other cradling a cup of coffee. It’s still hot, he can see steam curling up around her face. Tony stares at her. Peggy has always been incongruous, since the day he met her: too lovely to be real, here in this hell. If you’d told him before this that the best soldier he’d ever meet would be a woman, let alone a knock-out dame – 

_We’d lose more men than we’d save._ Lose more _men_. Phillips knew their worth, but would command even consider a woman and a fairy a loss? Did Phillips leave him a _loophole_? 

The rational voice in his mind, the one telling him that was absolutely absurd, dangerously wishful thinking gets drowned out by incendiary, manic hope. “Peggy,” Tony practically shouts, “Come with me! Let’s go, right now. You and I, we – we could do it. We can go get them!” He stands up so fast that he smashes his head into the fuselage. Peggy drops the coffee when she reaches out to steady him, and the smell of it grows more pronounced.

“Tony, no! What are you talking about? We can’t go against direct orders !” She sounds panicked, her voice rising in pitch and volume.

“Peggy, please,” Tony begs. “I know what I’m asking, I do. I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are, but - ” He breaks off to swipe the back of his hand over his eyes. He doesn’t have time for this. His chest is tight again with barely-banked panic. They’ll need to move out before someone realizes Tony needs to be stopped. “Help me find the tank, Pegs, please.”

“Colonel Phillips thinks it’s a wild goose chase. You haven’t convinced him that any of ours made it out.”

“But what if they did?” he presses. “What if Gabe is still out there?” It’s a shitty thing to say, but Tony has to get through to her.

She frowns mightily at him. “Tony, you know what the odds are. It’s unlikely that anyone made it out, let alone one specific soldier.”

“But someone did, Peggy, I’m sure of it. Maybe it’s not your Gabe. But it’s someone’s Gabe, or Sammy, or James.” His voice breaks on the name. “We have a chance to bring them home,” he finishes in a whisper.

“James is most likely dead.”

Tony flinches, but doesn’t reply. Peggy stares at him for a long time, until the sky opens up and starts raining on them. It’s loud in the scrap yard with drops pinging hard off the various metal surfaces. Tony lets his shoulders slump under the onslaught. Peggy’s hair is flattened and plastered to her face and neck. She takes his hand and draws him back to the main part of the camp. He walks beside her in silence, grateful that she doesn’t try to placate him with useless, empty reassurances.

He plays up his defeat. It isn’t hard; Tony is so tired. It doesn’t look like she is going to leave him at the entrance to the unit’s sleeping tent, but then Hawkeye is coming out of it with an urgent message for her from Phillips. Peggy is distracted enough to accept Tony’s dull, forced assertion that Rhodey is inside and Tony will seek comfort from his best friend.

He ducks inside the flap, but watches Clint and Peggy make their way back between the rows of tents once again until they have turned the corner out of sight. With a pang, he realizes that he may never see them again. He’s grateful that Rhodey sleeps like a log, he doesn’t think he would be able to stomach lying to Rhodey on top of everything. Just the thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth while he quickly packs for a solo rescue mission. Tony grabs only what’s at hand in the sleeping tent or between him and the Twin Beech. There’s no time for detours.

He’s going to go back to Austria even if he has to go alone. It’s what he’s out here for, to protect Bucky, and he ruthlessly doesn’t let himself consider how bleak the prospect truly is. 

*******************

The euphoria at the war’s end lasts several months for Steve, but eventually he seems to settle back into the business of living without being glued to the radio. Rations become a memory. Captain America is renewed for another 24-issue run, and he’s able to save up some money of his own. He hasn’t precisely severed ties with his parents, but he’s quite convinced that having the contingency is essential. It has taken an unforgivably long time for him to come to terms with his condition, but he knows now that it’s not going to change. He may have grown out of most of his childhood ailments, but some things he has simply had to learn to live around.

Among his numerous conditions, being bent may not be the most life-threatening, but Steve knows it’s the one Howard would hold against him personally. Look at what happened with Tony.

Steve’s hands curl themselves into fists and he grits his teeth against the pain of regret in his chest. Oh, God, Tony. He has put it off for too long, convincing himself he wouldn’t be welcome, but he can’t do this anymore. He has spent so long cut off from his older brother. So many years without the man who could always make him smile. So many years without Bucky, who had always held him when he was sick. He’s got his little bit of money that Howard’s never touched and a little time off now; he’s going to make things right with them. If he can. He steps up to the counter and buys a ticket to Los Angeles.

He has a few days before he’ll be able to see Tony and Bucky, and Steve finds himself unable to stop his mind tying itself in knots thinking of all the things they have missed since Bucky was taken away and Tony left. He’ll tell them about Bruce getting married; how bright his Betty is. He’ll ask them if they have read his comics. He’ll tell them how all the best parts of Captain America came from them; his bravery from Bucky, his quick-thinking from Tony. 

He hasn’t decided if he will tell them about Howard’s drinking, how it’s poisoning the rest of his life. He doesn’t know if they will want to hear that Maria’s headaches are getting more frequent; that she hardly leaves her room anymore.

He wants, badly, to admit that Natasha hasn’t ever turned his head the way Bernard in the mailroom does and he wants to be told what to do about that. He nurses a drink in the dining car for most of an afternoon worrying at that particular thought.

By the time the train is passing through New Mexico, Steve can’t think past what he knows will be the very first conversation he needs to have. Steve must apologize, though he has no idea how to do it. What do you say to two people you have wounded so deeply? How can he even start when he knows that he doesn’t deserve forgiveness? 

*******************

Steve scowls at the pavement, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. He should have bought sunglasses. California is just really annoyingly bright. Steve’s mood would be more suited to a long walk down a drab street, overcast clouds hanging low and ominous. Instead, it’s barely two blocks to his destination. The clean window proclaims “Barnes Automobile Repairs” in letters colored the same cheerful blue as the sky.

Steve takes a deep breath and tries the door. It’s locked, but he expected that. It’s still quite early, but he couldn’t rattle around his motel room for another minute without risking his sanity. Best get on with things. He continues up the street, past a few more businesses, until he can swing around to the back of the row. There are several cars parked along the side alley, and he sees two tucked up in the shop. The engine block from one is resting on a platform while the car itself seems to gape open. There are a pair of booted feet sticking out from underneath the other vehicle.

“Tony?” Steve asks, forcing his voice to come out as more than a whisper.

A man he doesn’t recognize wheels out from under the car and squints up at Steve. “He’s not down yet, pally. What can I do for you?”

“I need to see him. It’s a family concern,” Steve answers. He forces himself to wait calmly while the man gives him an assessing look. Steve knows he doesn’t look like he’d be a threat to a half-starved kitten, let alone two grown men. 

The man seems to the same conclusion and waves Steve off to a dimly lit staircase off to the left. “You must be the little brother. Go on up and try not to get shot.”

Dread pools in his stomach and weighs down his feet, as if he can feel the distance they have traveled in every day since that horrible night when he last saw Bucky Barnes, led away in handcuffs. It’s the work of too many years and too few moments to reach the landing and a wooden door painted cherry-red. Steve knocks twice. 

No one answers.

Steve bites back a swear and knocks again. Finally, the door opens with a faint creak and Tony leans in the doorway. He’s wearing a dressing gown and socks and his hair is outrageously messy, standing up in pillow-generated tuffs.

“Oh, God,” he groans. He stumbles to the railing beside Steve and yells down into the main space, “Peter Quill, you are so fired!”

“No, I’m not!” the man yells back from his position on the floor.

“No, he’s not, the little shit,” Tony mutters, side-long to Steve, then turns to look at him.

“I tried writing. You never answered me. I need to talk to you. Both of you.” Steve blurts. His hands have started sweating and he tries to wipe them on his pants.

Tony sighs, almost imperceptibly, and beckons Steve to follow him into the little apartment above the shop. He’s led into a tiny kitchen, little more than a stove and a table with two chairs. Tony rummages on a shelf for a moment and then lights a cigarette. He takes a drag and closes his eyes on the exhale before silently offering one to Steve.

Steve thanks him. Neither of them comment on how Tony’s hand is shaking. Tony smokes in silence for a few minutes. He hasn’t offered Steve a light. Steve notices, with an unpleasant jolt, that he’s forgotten his lighter. Just like Bucky had that horrible summer night. “I’m so sorry. I am so very sorry, Tones.”

“Don’t call me that,” Tony snaps, and abruptly turns away from Steve. He curves his arms around himself, defensive and tense.

Steve bites his lip until he tastes blood. “I know what I did was terrible. I don’t expect you, either of you, to forgive me.”

Tony laughs, mirthless. “Oh, don’t worry, we won’t,” he tosses over his shoulder. Another minute passes in awkward silence. Finally, Tony’s shoulders slump and he sighs, “You’ve said all this in your letters. Why are you here, Steve?”

“I wanted to see you,” Steve admits.

There’s a sharp scraping noise and Bucky tugs open the door at the other end of the room. His hair is longer, and just as unkempt as Tony’s. He’s wearing army uniform pants and an unbuttoned shirt. There’s an artistically appealing pattern of fading stains on what was probably once white fabric. Steve squints at the marks, and it takes him a moment to realize that the empty left sleeve is pinned up to just below Bucky’s shoulder. By then Bucky has gone to Tony and greeted him with a hoarse “Good morning” and a kiss on his neck. Horrified at himself for staring, Steve paces a few steps further away while Tony carefully buttons Bucky’s shirt and gives him a gentle kiss. Bucky excuses himself with a mumble and crosses to another door, which opens to show a miniscule bathroom. Steve hears the lock thrown after Bucky steps inside. 

The silence that falls in the kitchen is so absolute Steve can hear Bucky taking his piss behind the door. Steve grimaces, trying to come up with some topic to broach with his brother.

Tony goes to the sink to fill a kettle and takes pity on him, asking quietly, “Did you eventually figure it out on your own or did Bruce have to tell you?”

“Both,” Steve whispers. “I think I knew from the moment Bruce thanked him. I convinced myself I didn’t understand what was going on, but… deep down, I did know.”

“And yet, here you are with apologies for us,” Tony sneers, “when an argument could be made that you spared me the same fate as Bucky. I remember the rate at which he and I were going. It was only a matter of time before we got caught.”

“But it didn’t have to be by me! You wouldn’t have been betrayed by a brother, someone who should have been the first one defending you. I should never have read something private without permission, or jumped to conclusions, or handed Howard the means to destroy Bucky.”

The bathroom door must have opened again during Steve’s tirade, because suddenly Bucky is right there, intense stare boring into Steve. Bucky stands flush against Tony’s side. He turns his attention to Tony and asks, “What is he doing here?”

“He came to speak to me,” Tony answers, with a slightly mocking tone as if they are reciting a pre-planned conversation.

“Oh, really? Whatever could he be intending to talk about?”

“The terrible thing I did,” Steve breaks into their bizarre conversation, voice loud but cracking.

“I know that Tony and I made mistakes, so many mistakes, but I have to admit, seeing you now? I don’t know whether I want to just shoot you here or find a river to drop you in first.”

Steve straightens his back. He expected this reaction, he reminds himself. They won’t actually hurt him, he truly believes that.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like in jail?” Bucky hisses. Steve flinches. “Of course, you don’t. Was it thrilling to think of me inside? Did you feel important, like a hero putting away a _villain_?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why are you here?” Bucky shouts. “I will not go back and over my dead body will Tony ever face that, so think very carefully about your answer.”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright.” Steve says, meeting Bucky’s gaze head-on. “And if I found that you were, I could take it as a little hope for myself.”

No one says anything after that. Steve’s said his piece. It’s up to them if he stays or goes. The slowly building tension grows until it is abruptly broken by the whistle of the kettle on the stove. All three of them flinch at the sudden sound. Tony recovers first, bumping his hip into Bucky’s to steer him towards the kitchen chairs. “Sit down, you.” He points to Steve. “And you too.”

Tony putters around, pouring water over coffee grounds. Steve moves to the little dining set and settles into the remaining chair across from a tired-looking Bucky. From this new angle, he can see into the bedroom. Their obviously shared bed is rumpled. Clothing and books litter the room and any available flat surface. When Tony finally hands Steve a cup of coffee, Steve feels something in his stomach relax for the first time in years. The feeling makes him bold, and he asks, “Are you truly more careful now? What about that fella downstairs? Aren’t you worried about being found out? What if Howard came looking for you? You weren’t that hard to find once I asked a friend at the paper,” Steve says.

Tony takes the rapid questions in stride, and it is so familiar Steve’s heart feels a little heavy. He misses his brother. “Mostly, and we’ve gotten better at finding places that are safe. I trust Peter. I’m always worried about being discovered, but I’m not actually worried about Howard doing so,” Tony sniffs and goes to the other end of the table to lean against Bucky’s side. “He’d have to consider taking a name other than _Stark_ a possibility and I really don’t think that has ever occurred to him. Besides, I think he’s washed his hands of me.” Bucky sets his cup down to pull Tony over into his lap, his eyes defiant on Steve’s.

Steve holds his gaze, trying to look calm and accepting. “He’s mostly given up caring about anything that doesn’t come from a bottle,” Steve admits, and from there they manage a conversation. It’s halting, and Steve can tell they don’t want him to be here. Although, Tony does get choked up when Steve talks about Bruce’s wedding, and Steve promises him a photograph in his next letter. Eventually, the coffee is gone and Steve knows he’s reached the end of his welcome. 

Neither of them shake his hand or make any promises to see him again, but Steve still leaves feeling a lot lighter than he did before. He slips out quietly, managing not to run in to Peter between the stairs and the open bay doors. 

At least they have this, he tells himself. Despite their anger towards him, they seem happy here. That’s all Steve really needs to know to help settle his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Peggy and her refusal to go against orders: I know it's not what she does in the movies, but I think that outside of a comic book universe, a woman like Peggy who worked her way up, clawed out the respect of Colonel Phillips, would balk at blatant insubordination when there’s no Captain America around to cloud her judgement. Apologies to readers who may disagree with that interpretation.


	3. Epilogue: 2000

Phil Coulson frowns at the email from his editor. He refreshes the inbox, but it’s still there. Sighing, he leans over to grab his phone and punches in her five-digit extension.

“Hill here.”

“It’s Coulson. Care to explain why I have an Arts & Style puff piece in my assignments now?”

“Consider it payment for Tahiti.”

“ _You_ owe _me_ for Tahiti, Maria.” Phil grimaces at the mention of the island. He’d agreed to fill in for their normal Travel correspondent. It was supposed to be an easy article on a new resort, but he had gotten so ill the doctors had debated calling his family down to the island to say their farewells. He’d recovered, but the vivid hallucinations he’d had of dying and being revived by an alien robot had haunted him for months after his return home.

“Not anymore,” Maria returns. There’s a long pause while Phil seethes, but finally she sighs and asks, “What is it that you do for a living, Phil?”

Phil frowns. “I’m an investigative journalist.”

“Then I suggest you investigate.” She hangs up the phone. 

Phil sighs and glances at the email again. The pitch summary is for the designation of an estate in upstate New York as a national historic site. He doesn’t recognize the address or the interviewee, someone named Steven Stark. He plugs the man into the search engine and nearly chokes on his own tongue.

Pen name. He knows him by his pen name. It takes a moment to sink in, but he eventually wraps his mind around the fact that he’s _going to be in Steve Rogers’ house_. Oh, shit, that’s definitely worth what happened in Tahiti. 

*******************

The car passes through an honest-to-God wrought iron gate and follows the drive past immense and immaculate lawns before finally arriving at the house. It's exactly the type of place one would expect to be made into a protected historical sight, huge and imposing and elegant all the same. There is a diminutive old man waiting for him when he approaches the front door. Steve Rogers, or more precisely, Steven Stark. He is bent with age, an air of fragility about him, but the eyes in his wrinkled face are sharp and clear. He smiles warmly when Phil introduces himself. It's all Phil can do to keep from gushing about Captain America. With his luck, he would end up revealing how he dressed as Cap every Halloween since he was three years old, and designed the costumes himself starting when he was twelve.

Sharon, the photographer, excuses herself to get some wide-angle shots of the home’s exterior. Mr. Stark leads Phil inside to a sunny parlor and serves him coffee in a fussy little cup. Phil settles on the sofa and leans forward to address his interviewee. “Mr. Rog – I mean, Mr. Stark – “ 

“Steve, please, it’s just easier.”

“ – Steve. I just wanted to say, before we go on the record, that I am a huge, huge fan of your comics.” Phil manages to get to the end of the sentence without turning breathless, so he considers it a success.

“Thank you, Mr. Coulson.” Steve says evenly. 

“Call me Phil, if you’d like.” They share a polite smile before Phil manages to scrape up his professionalism and they move on to reviewing the ground rules both parties agreed upon via email before Phil’s arrival. Sharon enters the room and is plied with coffee of her own. Soon, Phil is taking out his recorder to get the interview started, and there’s really only one way he can do so.

“I think we’d better address the elephant in the room, Steve. You are announcing your retirement from the comics industry in an Arts & Style piece focused on your house,” Phil leads.

“That’s correct.” Steve replies.

Phil pauses, but Steve doesn’t elaborate. “Well, even for a man who is known for being on the rash and unconventional side in the comics industry, that seems like an odd choice.”

“I’m dying,” Steve says, meeting Phil’s eyes almost aggressively. “What do I care what the industry thinks of me anymore?”

His eyebrows try to climb off his forehead at that statement, but this time Phil holds his silence and Steve eventually explains, “Well, not just now, I suppose. I have Parkinson’s, early stages, but for an artist – “ Steve holds his shaking hands up “ – that’s just a semantic difference.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil says. That sort of reveal naturally puts the brakes on the flow of the interview, and Phil casts around for something to get the momentum going. He feels inexperienced, like a baby 20-year-old writing for the college paper, in the face of this interviewee. 

“Would you like to tell me about the house?” Phil asks Steve to get the ball rolling.

“Well, I can recite a bit of the history of the building, but there wasn’t anything of particular note. The construction methods were consistent with the contemporary buildings at the time. The New York historical society is going to do a write-up for a display in the front hall.” Steve waves vaguely behind him.

“The house hasn’t been in the Stark family for generations or anything particularly romantic like that,” Steve continues, “but I hope that, given the legacy of my father and brother in the war and my own meager fame, it will be an interesting site for visitors. It’s really the only fitting thing for it, since there will be no surviving lineage once I have gone. Bruce was the only one of us to ever marry, and he wasn’t able to have children.”

Phil nods encouragingly. Steve takes a minute to sip his coffee, very carefully as his hand tremors, and says, “Howard Stark grew up poor, but he was very quick, and a crack inventor, and when he made his fortune it was very important to him to have all the outer trappings of that fortune. He never really lost that insecurity he developed as a child.”

“The house is obviously exquisite, very well looked-after,” Phil prompts. “Our source in historical preservation was in raptures over the attention to detail and the resistance to certain modernizing influences that often detract from a site like this.”

“I wanted it restored to the last time it felt like a home,” Steve says quietly.

“When was that?” Phil asks.

“1938. The last months that the family was all together. My father and oldest brother were most often in the city. Busy with Stark Industries, of course. My other brother was at MIT, but he would be home for breaks. I was much younger, so it always seemed to me that my brothers were so grown up, off living their lives, but I understand now how young they really were.”

“Can you tell me about your family?”

“I really feel as if I should show you. The gallery showing is long overdue, after all.” Steve’s eyes lose a bit of focus, as if he can see back through the years. “I’ve always been better at showing than speaking. I will be forever grateful to Captain America, to the audiences I have been able to reach, but in my heart of hearts, I was always a painter. I can tell a story in dialog and panels and pages and issues, but sometimes, a single, quiet scene can speak the loudest.” Steve sighs. “I should have stuck with painting over speaking. When I rush off half-cocked when painting, the most I can ruin is a canvas.” 

The old man trails off with that statement, melancholy and sinking into himself in his chair. Phil holds back his comments behind a well-practiced stoicism, letting the silence spool out in the room. Steve looks back towards the stairs with a frown and picks at the blanket in his lap while Phil tries not to burst with anticipation.

Steve comes back to himself after another minute, startling slightly to see Phil there, but recovering quickly. “Would you like to meet the Starks, then?”

Phil nods eagerly. He stands, following Steve as he makes his slow way up a wide oak staircase. The air is heavy and warm, but not uncomfortably so. Anticipation shivers up his spine and he darts a quick glance towards Sharon. She smiles at him warmly, and makes a shooing motion to encourage him to keep up with their host, even as she pauses to snap a few pictures of the view of the entryway from their new elevated vantage point. There will be a full photoshoot with enhanced lighting and her full tripod set up later in the week, but Sharon wanted to come out and get a feel for the place first and Phil agreed to be her ride.

Steve pauses at the upstairs landing, gazing up at a large family portrait. Phil can make out his features in the narrow face, fine boned wrists and piercing blue eyes of the smallest boy. The child Steve is posed next to a lovely woman who must be his mother. They share the same light blond hair, but Maria Stark has an easy grace her serious-faced youngest child doesn’t display. Her husband is seated next to her, a neatly trimmed mustache failing to hide the slight frown on his face. Two older boys stand behind their parents, both with dark hair slicked down severely. They are leaning in to each other and smiling for the portrait, the smaller of the two with a slight smirk. They are posed in a garden, and the scene could be any other wealthy family in the 1930s, but Phil finds himself enthralled by this glimpse of the people who would go on to change the world. A frozen look at Howard and Bruce who turned genius and creativity to destruction when they helped give the world the atom bomb and at Steve, whose creation gave millions a hero to aspire to.

Phil wants to ask about them, is practically bursting with questions, but he learned patience early on in his career and Steve has already said that he was better at showing than telling. When he turns back to Steve with nothing more than polite anticipation on his face, Steve smiles and pushes open the doors at the opposite side of the landing. They walk through the doors into a series of what must have been bedrooms, renovated to serve as a gallery.

“The Captain America museum is in the opposite wing, and the third is my mother’s suite, which has not been altered much since her passing, and the upstairs library. You’re welcome, of course, to spend as much time as you like in any of them, though I admit to wanting visitors to know about this wing particularly. I have loved Cap, but this is the only way I could think of to properly tell the world about the people most important to me.”

By the time he finishes his speech, Steve is wheezing slightly, and Phil gestures towards a convenient armchair at the front of the gallery. Steve waves him off, insisting that he be at hand to answer any questions Phil might have. Phil doesn’t waste time, afraid that if he spends the time arguing, the old man will remain until he collapses. The comics industry is rife with reports of the stubbornness of Steve Rogers. He steps into the first room. The paintings in this room vary widely in subject matter and skill level, from the front of the Stark house rendered in great detail, to portraits of uncertain characters. He glances at the cards hanging next to the paintings. Most have handwritten titles on aging yellow cardstock preserved between glass plates. Printed labels beneath these include Steve’s full name, the date and the corresponding age of the artist. Most seem to be from the summer of 1938. 

He stops next to a portrait of a young woman. Steve’s childish scrawl proclaims her to be Princess Arabella. She’s lovely, but there’s a certain flatness to her face that speaks to the inexperience of her creator. Beside him, Steve sighs, “This room is the collection that made up what was to be my first showing. Of course, now it is also my last.” 

Phil decides not to comment on that last bit. “What do you mean, was to be?”

Steve sighs again. “You researched my family, did you not, Phil? To prepare for this piece?”

“Of course.”

“And did you learn anything about Anthony Stark?”

That brings Phil up short. He hadn’t read anything about the other son, and none of the portraits in this room have that name on them. “Nothing,” Phil admits.

“Nothing,” Steve echoes quietly. “He was like a star: more at home in the sky than anywhere else, and burning himself up with no hope of stopping that didn’t involve an explosion. He lit up my life in ways I didn’t appreciate until he was gone from it. And no one knows him.” He set his jaw firmly. “Well, they are going to. At least those that will care to look.”

Steve ushers him into the next room, which contains a series of printed posters in comic book panel style. Phil loses himself in reading the pages. They show a family drama unfolding here in this house over the course of a heat-drenched summer day. Anthony Stark, or Tony as the characters in the comic pages refer to him, is shown sneaking around with a Bucky Barnes, the son of the cook, and Tony’s lover. The two men are magnetic, both to each other and to the reader, and Phil finds himself deeply invested in their forbidden romance and the tragedy of the young Steve’s misconception. Bucky’s sacrifice is gut wrenching, and Phil spends a long time staring at Tony’s face in the last panel, his heartbreak is obvious and rendered in a distinct style familiar to Phil from Steve’s later comics work. He barely pauses for permission as he hurries to the next room in the hall, this one displaying oil paintings.

Apart from a portrait of Howard and Bruce in white lab coats, these paintings show individual scenes from the front lines in Europe in WWII, and they all seem to include Tony or Bucky, sometimes both. Bucky wears a private’s uniform in most of them, still strikingly handsome but sad and worn around the edges. One scene depicts him opening a C ration, surrounded by fellow soldiers. He is smiling slightly, but the composition has him subtly set apart from the group, and it makes him seem lonely. Tony is shown in one painting leaning over a giant map, concentration heavy on his face and pencil smudges decorating his hands, and grinning out of the window of a Twin Beech in another. 

“I got first-hand accounts of all the events I couldn’t personally witness,” Steve says, nodding at a picture of what looks like a prisoner camp, a group of men, including Bucky, slouching on the bare floor of a round cell with iron bars. “Forced labor in a German weapons factory.”

Phil swallows, willing his stomach to calm. He’s grown invested in Bucky Barnes after the last room, and can’t imagine him in those conditions. 

The door to the next room is flanked by large paintings on standing easel displays. One shows Tony, filthy with blood and mud streaking his face and clothing, straining to carry an unconscious Bucky through a dark forest. The detail on this piece is exquisite, the sheen of tears in Tony’s eyes almost calling Phil’s hand up to wipe them away. The other piece shows Tony at Bucky’s bedside in a clean white hospital setting. The bandages covering the stump of Bucky’s left arm are slightly stained; the amputation had been recent. Bucky is again unconscious, but Tony’s face is unbearably soft, his love for Bucky unmistakable. 

Phil stares at these two for a long time. He’s not exactly an expert, but the level of dedication that went into these paintings is staggering. 

The paintings in the final, and largest, room cover a much longer spread of time. One small wall displays an entire series of Tony posing in front of various aircraft, the sophistication of the machines increasing along with the model’s apparent age; his facial hair and flight jackets evolve over the decades. There are portraits of Steve’s parents; a placard informs the viewer that they were pieces done specifically for the memorial service of Howard and Maria Stark, who died together in a car accident in 1951. A corner dedicated to Bruce shows a young man at the peak of health next to a bride in a white wedding dress. A much thinner Bruce looks out of the frame next to it; his eyes are sunken beneath his bald head, but they seem to burn with rage all the same. Seeing the portrait, Phil remembers reading that Bruce had developed brain cancer, which, in addition to ultimately killing the man, resulted in intense mood swings and anger issues that had the previously private man creating scenes in public that ended up splashed across the newspapers at the time.

However, Tony and Bucky are still the dominant subject. Phil sees the two men on a rocky beach, splashing each other in the foamy surf. He sees them loading up a truck with boxes and furniture, clearly preparing for a move. He sees them each with terrible mustaches. He sees them sat at a tiny kitchen table, bodies canted towards each other and faces open and affectionate. He sees Tony’s mouth curved in what Phil is starting to recognize is a trademark smirk. He sees both men with gray hair, their arms tucked around each other, at what Phil can only assume is some early incarnation of a Pride parade.

Phil grins at that portrait. “This is fantastic!” He spins to face Steve again, gesturing back at the two faces. “Do you think we could interview one or both of them for this piece as well? Are they still alive?” His words are rushed in his excitement, but it doesn’t last. Steve is already shaking his head and gesturing back to the padded benches in the previous room. Phil feels his face fall in disappointment. Tony and Bucky were so vibrant, it would have been a great addition to the piece.

“You are neither an artist nor an art critic, Phil. Would you agree?” Steve asks, once they have sat down together in the WWII room.

Phil nods. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I would need to bring someone who could comment on this type of work. I could arrange to talk to someone, get that perspective for the article if you feel that would be better.”

Steve waves him off, “No, I apologize, that’s not what I meant. Let me put it this way, do you think you could identify the approximate year of an issue of Captain America by the art style?”

“Yes, although I wouldn’t be able to put it into words. It would just be a feeling, based on my familiarity.”

“My artistic styles have always been fairly fluid, changing in different ways over the years,” Steve whispers.

Suddenly, Phil realizes what Steve is getting at. He looks at the paintings again, craning his neck until he has to get to his feet to see around the gallery. “The comic posters were all done less than ten years ago, it all matches recent Captain America art. But here, it’s all evolving. And in the next room. You’ve been working on this for years…”

Steve smiles a small, sad smile. “I’ve been working on it as far back as my time with the Office of War Information.”

After a long pause, Phil asks, “What happened to Tony and Bucky?”

“There’s a binder, just under the bench there.” Steve points to the end of the bench. Phil crouches down to retrieve it. He offers it to Steve, but Steve shakes his head, so Phil sits down and opens it. There are more comic pages, and _now_ it’s obvious to Phil that these were done a long time ago. There are roughed-in panels in places, but it is clearly the continuation of the story as it is presented in the room behind him.

“That won’t be left out here, of course, it’s not part of the exhibit,” says Steve, “but I wanted someone to _understand_. I hope that the showing will help people to know more about my family, but most aren’t going to look too closely at the details. I had at one point intended to publish a comic book, but it got too hard to get the narrative right.”

Phil reaches a section that is almost print-quality, fully inked and colored, showing Steve in a tiny apartment making his apologies to his brother while Bucky scowls at Tony’s side. The conversation starts hostile, but the men manage to reach civility before the end of the visit. Phil smiles at Steve, happy for the man who must have carried that guilt all through the war.

Phil flips to the end of the binder. This time, Bucky is seated at Tony’s hospital bed, and the old men are saying their farewells. Phil feels a little choked up at that, especially when the next few panels show Bucky swiftly deteriorating himself, ultimately dying of a broken heart a few months later.

He flips a few pages earlier to find out the cause of Tony’s death and frowns. These pages show Bucky being stabbed in a mugging in a dark city street, his body crumpling to the ground. Tony starts to run after the mugger, but stops when he realizes Bucky isn’t following. Phil distantly recalls that he’d always been impressed with the way Steve Rogers could convey agony and anguish in his comics. Clearly, it was a skill he practiced. Phil quickly flicks further back to avoid the full half-page look at Tony’s face when he realizes that Bucky isn’t going to get up again.

There’s an earthquake. A peaceful scene where they have both passed in their sleep. A car accident. Illnesses. Close to a dozen scenarios fill the end of the binder, some are complete, some could hardly be called sketches. 

Phil takes a deep breath and deliberately closes the binder. “You don’t know what happened to them.”

“I don’t know what happened to them,” Steve admits, voice catching on the confession. “Private James Barnes enlisted in the army as part of a deal to reduce his prison sentence for time served in the infantry,” Steve says, voice quiet but steadier now. “Anthony Stark attempted to enlist as well, but was denied on a medical basis for a congenital heart murmur. Never one to take no for an answer, my brother got himself attached to a Colonel Phillips who had a bit of a knack for collecting talented misfits. They both ended up in Northern Italy. That much was easily verified in official records and witness accounts.” Steve swallows tightly. “Which is fortunate for me, since my brother never returned a bit of my correspondence.” He sighs.

“Bucky was captured during the Battle of Azzano and taken, along with other allied prisoners, to a weapons factory in Austria.”

Phil’s stomach sinks, dread slowly pooling in its place. Steve continues, “Tony’s crew were the ones to gather that intel. Tony wanted to go after them, but was denied, repeatedly, by Colonel Phillips. He continued to fly missions to the area to monitor the situation. When the factory was destroyed in an apparent worker uprising, nothing could stop him from going to look for Bucky.”

Steve pulls a small picture from his wallet, a beautiful brunette with victory curls. “This is Margaret Carter. She goes by Peggy.” He smiles. “She was another one of Phillip’s collection. I tracked her down after the war and we became very good friends.”

Steve pauses again, looking down at the picture of the young woman. Phil feels the anticipation build and almost doesn’t want Steve to continue. The old man meets Phil’s eyes and says, “She always regretted not defying orders to go with Tony that night – ” his voice is choked with tears “ – because that was the last time anyone saw him.”

Steve turns the pages in the binder, startling Phil a little; he’d forgotten it was on his lap. The new page shows a full-page illustration of Tony flying through a stormy night, explosions lighting up in the dark outside the cockpit windows. His eyes are wide with fear. Phil glances at it and looks away again. The silence draws out.

“There were three allied survivors to make it back to the front from the factory in Kreuzberg, and they knew Bucky, but none of them could tell me what happened to him.”

“So, they died in the war,” Phil says, voice hollow before he clears his throat, “and you wanted to re-write that sacrifice?”

Steve puffs up a little. “They both went missing in the war, Mr. Coulson. I’ve done extensive research, spent a small fortune following leads, and neither man was ever confirmed dead.”

“Did your extensive research indicate that there was any possibility that they weren’t?”

Steve’s still sitting as upright as he can, chin jutted out stubbornly. “A possibility, maybe. Certainly oddities. Those three men who escaped the factory managed to do so in a stolen tank. The Army Corps of Engineers report on that tank indicated that it had been repaired using US machine screws before coming into Allied custody.”

“Could one of the escaped – “

“No, none of them were mechanics nor would they have had access to that type of screw nor the appropriate tools after having been German POWs.”

Part of Phil thinks Steve is reaching there, but his conviction is a little infectious. The old man continues, “I also went over hospital records in Europe. That was probably the most difficult task of all, reading through the toll the war took on human flesh.”

“What did you find?” Phil asks. It’s his job, of course, to ask the questions, to let Steve tell his story. When this is over he will have to write something suitable to print about all this, but right now it doesn’t feel like a job. He’s invested now, the power of Steve Rogers to tell a story has captivated him since he was very young and it’s no different today.

“Lucerne, Switzerland,” Steve answers. “There was – there was an unidentified American who arrived less than two weeks after the factory exploded. Gunshot wound to his left arm, which required amputation. He was brought in by and left with another American. Someone who had enough means to get into the country with a wounded man. Someone who, reportedly, showed a great deal of devotion to that man.”

The gallery is quiet, apart from the slight wheeze in Steve’s inhale. Phil can imagine that all too easily. Steve’s rendition of Tony and Bucky in the hospital had been his favorite of the works he’d seen that afternoon.

“I was never brave enough to try to pull on that last thread,” Steve finally confesses. “I spent a lot of my life regretting that. If I was correct, and I could find them, I could apologize for the horrible thing that I had done to them. But what purpose would it serve to them at that point? Nothing. My brother made it clear that he didn’t want to have anything to do with our family. I would only be assuaging my own guilt. And if I was wrong – well, I found myself unable to face that possibility. I convinced myself that this way was better.” Steve chokes a little, stopping to blow his nose.

“There’s a life for them here,” he continues. “There’s happiness. They’re together.”

*******************

Phil meets up with Sharon, who had excused herself from their discussion earlier to wander the other wings of the mansion. They walk down the stone steps towards the driveway. It’s still bright outside and it feels incongruous to Phil. Surely receiving a heartfelt confession from the creator of your childhood hero should take an entire afternoon? The gravel drive crunches under his shoes as they wait for the car to pick them up. Sharon is quietly snapping pictures of the view as they wait. Phil’s chest feels heavy, thinking about the story he had just experienced. Tony and Bucky’s desperate longing, the juvenile passion fading into a deep love. The struggle of a soldier in wartime. Private moments that would have been heavily guarded in the time period, brought to light in this marginally more forgiving age. Two lives spent together, revealed through the smallest moments. Steve managed, with his art, to bring the two men to life, to bring them back together, and Phil feels his throat tighten again at the thought.

He wonders if this display, Steve’s atonement writ large for anyone to see, will bring Steve some manner of peace before he’s gone. Phil hopes so, but he’s not sure a guilt carried for so many years like that, until it was bordering on obsession, can ever be soothed.

*******************

Bucky sighs and buries his toes deeper into the sand. It’s very soft, and the weather in San Diego is perfect as advertised, warm but not hot. He hears Tony come out of their rented beach house with a slam of the screen door. Ice clinks in the drinks that he sets down at Bucky’s hip a moment later.

Bucky feels bony hands knead gently at his shoulders. Any remaining tension he may have been carrying slowly seeps away as Tony carefully rubs his back and peppers little kisses on his bare skin. Tony is always careful around the stump on the left as a matter of habit; the amputation site is more than half a century old, but it still aches occasionally. When he’s finished with his attentions, he retrieves a drink and makes sure Bucky has his for a toast. 

“Happy Anniversary, Buckaroo.” Tony’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. His wrinkled, weathered face is still the most precious sight Bucky can imagine.

“Happy Anniversary, Tony,” he whispers, clinking his glass against Tony’s gently. “No regrets, love?”

“No regrets, my heart. Not a single one.” Tony sips at his drink before abandoning it once again to press coconut-flavored kisses to Bucky’s lips.

[ ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/9e318b509c4b3140930383fdc2837239/tumblr_oy8kj3bLWt1tfkbiwo1_1280.jpg)  
[Art by explodingcrenelation](http://explodingcrenelation.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to my artist, [explodingcrenelation](http://explodingcrenelation.tumblr.com/)!! They were so great during this bang, being a cheerleader for the writing and letting me peek at the pictures as they came along. Also, how great is the art for this chapter? Tony up on his toes! My *heart*!
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed this angst-fest. <3 I told my beta I would take fluff prompts after the last two things I've posted, so if you're inclined, drop 'em by my [tumblr](http://sierranovembr.tumblr.com/). No promises to be quick. ;)
> 
> Have a great day!


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